Epitaph as My Father’s Son

There is no house 
that is not my father’s.

There are no fixed stars,
just shaken bits of misery, 
tiny disasters tethered to hope.

From the house he loved,
I feel the slap of his inner pain,
fist waves hitting the footers.

It was easy for him to fight back,
(he had to do it to get anywhere)
harder for him to forgive it all, 
flow with the wind and waves.  
 
I don’t know whether he 
was able to fix himself by 
picking up the lost pieces 
of himself he spent 
so long searching for
from that rocky beach.

At a certain point 
we just blew forward,
swam with the waves.  

I’m sorry Dad, 
the world now 
makes more sense
now you’re gone.