Almost seven years
I still hear you telling me,
“grass is getting tall!”
whether backyard or kitchen
you knew how to work your space
The family still talks about the prime rib dishes you brought to cousin Lisa’s house Christmas after Christmas. Aquaintences I meet on the street still boast about your old restaurant. I still marvel at the deck you build after contractors mistakenly tore down our old one.
We had our differences. And our quarrels. Only you could get so implacably under my skin.
But you loved us in the best way you could. Perhaps you tried too hard–and saw only your own way as THE way to do it. But you did love us.
This near-sabbath of years later, I still miss you, Dad.
unvisited grave
the backyard is where I
find you the most
another mower ride
and there you are with me
for Real Toads Poems in April–the Tuesday Platform, imagined by Sanna
#GloPoWriMo2018 / #NaPoWriMo2018ย 24/30
Frank J. Tassone 
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