Today my father cuts his hair low,
he looks older & tired.
i can see it from his eyes,
myriad of life’s untold tales.
i am looking through his private diaries locked up & hidden,
maybe i will be lucky to see some of good recorded memories
of himself on what life was like to him while growing up.
there is this big box full of Bibles,
from where he wrote our names, –
with each passage, our names are engraved –
and special prayer points attached to it.
he had brought this box to my mother as a gift,
when they both settled their last quarrel, –
which i believe he holds it dear to this Bible and box,
as they lived the rest of their lives separated.
when i reckon of how much i have been through,
i think of how much my father has lived to endure
as the result of the ill felted marriage with my mother,
as all i could see written on his face are scares of grief.
I doubt it if god knows how much
my father has been able to endure within himself,
everyday remembrance of us, – hands him over to grief;
& he evaporates like mist each without our knowledge.
today, my father cuts his hair low to mourns
his ill felted marriage with my mother
& his grief, he wore as a garment.