Ian (Day 8)

(Day 8 of National Poetry Writing Month.)

  

He comes in 

for his bedtime hug

eyes droopy 

dragging his blanket

like every night

but tonight 

as I squeeze him

he whispers

I believe in you, Daddy

as if knowing I need it,

like he understands

encroaching middle age

and career stagnation,

is somehow aware of

lost potential 

and unused gifts,

dreams deferred

and deteriorated.

In a decade’s time

he will not believe in me

any more than 

I believe in myself now,

and he won’t even 

remember

a time when 

such faith explained 

the world to him,

chased away shadows,

tucked him in at night.

Placing a kiss 

on his forehead

I reply that 

I believe in him, too,

which serves as Goodnight

and he runs off

before I can elaborate on 

my hopes for him

or thank him for 

the vote of confidence

I didn’t realize I needed 

quite this much.

  

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About semiblind

Bringing you stark existentialism since 1981.
This entry was posted in family, NaPoWriMo, observations, people, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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