Old Photos
Phread, 2006

After my last grandparent died,
we were going through old photos
at his home when I saw it.
I did not know this photo existed
until then…

It was an old, black & white photo
of my father, holding me on his lap.
He was looking down at me and smiling,
and I was maybe three or four,
his first born, his son…
I took it home with me,
along with the other photos
I had claimed that day.

I was 38, and this was the first time
I'd ever seen this picture of my father
holding me…
He was holding me, looking at me,
smiling… And he's happy…

This photo is a blessing,
but it hurts like hell, too…
because it's proof he once loved me.
Once, before he got crazy
and self-centered and nasty
and controlling and abusive,
he loved me… Once upon a time.
But it was only a very dim,
wisp of memory in my ether…

It wasn't too long after that
when he stopped holding me,
or holding anyone, really…
And I've been holding that
little boy ever since...

All those damned therapists
and the self-help books
tell me that this should be enough.
I'm supposed to love myself first
and cherish myself
and it’s supposed to be enough...
But it never was enough
and it never will be,
No bloody way…

I have spent a lifetime,
thinking about loneliness.
I realize I'm never really lonely,
not most of the time anyway…

Lonely is relatively easy to fix.
What I am is “bereft,”
like there has always been
something missing,
no matter how much I had,
so I tried to stay busy
and not think about it…

But in those quiet times,
when I lay alone with my thoughts
“bereft” crept back in,
and I felt deep loss and
unfathomable grief…

Sadness and joy, I’ve come to realize,
are not incompatible,
and life is a complex weave sometimes,
but it does make for good poetry
so, I resign myself to the fact that
poetry will have to do…
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