He's still your Son
Papa has not talked to us, not to him at
least
angry you say
silent treatments, reverse psychology?
i heard him sobbing last night
my first time listening to his tears
excruciating.
i sang with my tears too, with him, worried
sleep
he stayed home, i had to work, nursing
hurting beds never was easy; yet, a catharsis
sometimes
my mind goes to war. heavy, perhaps i
should not have
have said it.
emotional turmoils were foreseen. but i
did look at the brightest light through this darkness
isn't that how i am supposed to look at
life mama?
perhaps you should tell papa too and use
your own advice.
read somewhere, adults are just like
children too
ironic isn't; humans aren't we, after all.
please don't blame yourself papa
did you know you were a sporting dad?
our friends, teachers at school, they
adore you
seeing you every day at the school
canteen, food in your hand
little brother and i longed for the recess
bell, would it be nasi lemak today?
no, kuih seri muka! my favourite.
“i wish I had a papa like yours”
you knew papa.
stories you would share, your victorious
young days
national hockey player, stunner in the
football field
right midfielder, center back
my oh my, those medals and trophies,
perched majestically on the shelves, i see you
brown jersey, on the wall, you had a long
moustache, thick. patrimony.
papa
did you know i wanted to be just like you,
good in some sports
run, jump, swing, pull, i joined them all,
at school
was once in school's athletic team, your
daughter
nothing much was said. frowns
you turned to little brother, "and
you?"
he showed you his painted nails
he was scared, judgements, 'why am i not
like you?'
a son to uphold your honour, yes, he did papa,
didn't you see.
amidst the ache, through the years, the
school's top scorer.
debator, president for clubs- singing,
dancing in glitter; and now,
a doctor, inspiring writer; unique from
birth- your legacy, in his creation, that's all.
By Jessica John Poskođź’—
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