By Larry D. Barton

This frail man who once lifted pounds of tools and worked endless hours beyond the average man can not be he who gave me life, who lifted me high toward the sky when I was innocent about him and me.
This frail flesh can not be the one who spoke with authority and provided me what I needed from day to month to year.
Then, I too, became a man with whiskered face and wisdom within. I left him; struck out on my own and did not look back. The hurt of years was too harsh; I could not stay, sit by and not try to be who I was to be: me.
The gulf was wide and years recorded their say and then, the call was made from me, not him. The voice? not his. Nor was it the one I could recall. He had to have changed, Had not I?
And then his mind began to go, bit by bit as the wind through the trees in the yard outside my window.
Then, he did not know or remember who he or I was. Only deep stares, and no words.
And the frail body that was once his stopped housing who he was. And he was no more.

Submitted By sania

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