Every story I share about my father

Every memory I hold

Feels invariably like a eulogy

And the trouble is,

I’m not sure for whom.

He died seventeen years ago,

And at this point I’m wondering

If part of me died with him.

A tiny part, a small part,

The part that he saw

When I was young,

The part that was truly me,

While my mother would only see

What I was good for.

For all his faults,

And there were a great many,

He at least had the ability to

Make me feel a bit special,

Make me feel seen,

Before it all went to hell.

As a child I couldn’t understand

His need to save himself,

But I get it now,

Now that I’ve done the same.

And so I cannot tell

If the ache of loss

Is for him, or for me.