My Dad had a bad day and died. He believed
in God, so I prayed because he obeyed his
faith that he’d find his reward in heaven, if
there was such a place.
He got no compensation nor answers for his
prayers or good deeds since birth, while serving
his time on Earth.
Showered with evil tribulations in the image of his
wife and kids who treated him like an indentured
servant sent from above to take care of them.
Looking down, he must have squirmed when my Mom
chose his successor to ease her pain. An Indian Man
from Canada who slurred when he spoke because he
drank too much.
“Better than shit on a stick,” she’d say when asked
why she made such a choice. I never tried to see
beyond his exterior to see what made him a man.
He too died and left my mother alone. I helped remove
his belongings and found his manuscripts written in
script that any calligrapher would aspire to.
Not knowing that death waited at his door, he wrote
the language of his tribe that had never been put on
paper before in explanatory language so clear even
I understood it.
Was this a gift from above in the name of love, showing
me what I see and perceive isn’t what’s really there, and
to never simply rely on what I see and to look inside
for the capsule of the mind that I always left behind?