Refraction.

My (Father's) Old Shirt

Laying here, wearing one of my father's
Old shirts - one that always made it
Into photographs; one so soft and silken
That it reminds me of the good times.
I cherrypick those sweet memories
From amongst the screaming, amongst
The fear. I think of the handful of times
That he hugged me, when we laughed,
Evenings together in front of the television -
All I ever wanted was to please,
And whilst nothing was ever quite good enough,
I'd feel the most incredible buzz
Amongst the sadness when I came close.
I lay here now, smoothing the shirt
With my fingers,
Ransacking my mind trying to remember
When he last said that he loved me,
If he ever did. I believe that he does,
But to balance that with never having been enough...
It weighs on my chest, my heart,
My lungs - I gasp for air, trying to muffle
My tears. I love him, of course,
And yet I fear his temper, his judgement -
I find myself crying when he raises his voice;
To live with him was debilitating,
But I don't want to go without,
So I pull his shirt around me - it almost fits,
Just a bit too large.
I don't want to become him entirely: I don't want
To be so uncommunicative, so angry,
But I see a courage and resilience
That I strive to have. I see a man
Who largely did what was right,
One who has taught me a great many things.
Some lessons were unpleasant to learn,
Nearly painful,
And I know sometimes he could have done better,
But such is humanity; such is life,
As is the way this shirt used to fit him,
As is the way that it almost fits me now.
There are miles between us -
I think it's for the best.
Nonetheless, I think of him now;
I think of the influence he's had.
I'll go home sometime, but I won't stay...
The man who once wore this shirt
Has become older but scarcely changed -
I wear it now,
And I don't think it recognises me,
But that knowledge helps me sleep at night:
I, for one, have grown.