Faded pages with words that sustain him...
Piled high on a scarred table by his bed...
Photos of children that have departed, at a height he can view...
Endless water glasses with rings of dust, covered in prints from once loving hands...
Numerous pairs of eye glasses smeared with the oil he so loves...
That his wife gladly cleans daily, no longer reminding him to try not to...
The multi-colored comforter that matches nothing, that only seems to be the one to bring him warmth...
Faded tattoos that tell the story of his awakening...
Sleeps forever now, when he once loved his insomnia...
Watches the dust covered ceiling fan, that has hung there before they were born...
His mind now a movie of repeated clips of smiles and tears they shed...
The fall morning when he told them, and the surprise he felt, when they said they understood...
And she did to, the woman he never believed was his...
He hears his fathers voice, and his kind words...
\"You\'ll know son when its time, no matter what faces you\"
Pads fill with notes of all he wants to say so as not to forget to say it...
He tells himself, maybe its time to begin saying the words that he\'s spent a life writing...
Because his father\'s face and voice seem to be...becoming as they were when he left at him at 21...
He smiles as he did when she said yes, waiting to tell him about her, sad they never met...
It\'s true what they say, \"Savor every moment\", as there is so little distance between when we start and finish...
Did you smile a lot and tell them all that you loved them?
Then you will have never really left...just waiting to begin again.