Memories of My Father are Close Calls and Missed Opportunities
<p>A painted image of my soul could be<br />
The figure of a gnarled grand oak tree<br />
With roots planted in sordid history</p>
<p>I am alive but barren and broken</p>
<p>The past has secrets we’ve never spoken<br />
Knowing the truth is a lucky token<br />
For those who wander, unafraid to ask<br />
Questions to answers they hope to unmask</p>
<p>Knowing you was my impossible task</p>
<p>Regret is indecision we swallow<br />
The bitterness of waste leaves us hollow<br />
To the grave, unspoken stories follow</p>
<p>I learned we weren’t so different at all<br />
After you died, and I could never again call</p>
<p>The last time I saw Garry, I was four. I found him again when I was 27, in 2010. We emailed each other until I had my first son in 2015.</p>
<p>Garry and I had been talking for a few years when he broached the subject of a meeting.</p>
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