An ordinary work day: only an hour commute, a Spoken Word poetry lesson, a guest appearance by the Creative Arts Team, another More Writing Monday (on a Tuesday) lesson. The meetings after work meant a Four O’Clock departure. It was already twilight by the time I arrived home.
No stop at Maryrest. No visit to the grave. No crows gathering on finally bare Maples surrounding the cemetary.
Why do I need to visit a grave to remember him, when every lawnmower ride I take memorializes him anew? He’s in my eyes, scanning the overgrown grass, and my hands, gripping the wheel.
At least, he was. This year, I felt my own sense of ownership distance me from that palpable sense of him. The recollections of his rides on the grass-stained, old Yard Machine we bought used have become blurred, almost abstract. I still hear his voice, but the fresh sense of his tone and diction fade.
Ten years to the day, and this Amentalio is what I have left of my father.
Christmas lights
if only you could
see them now
for dVerse Poets’ Tuesday Poetics (pubtended by Jade Li), where we write on entries from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. In commemoration of the 10th anniversary of my father’s death, I chose this one:
Amentalio: the sadness of realizing that you’re already forgetting sense memories of the departed- already struggling to hear their voice, picture the exact shade of their eyes, or call to mind the quirky little gestures you once knew by heart.
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Categories: haikai, haiku community
Frank J. Tassone 
Words we’ll written
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Thank you. 😀
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You are always welcome
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Extremely well-written, evocative, and absolutely beautiful. You can feel the love you have for your dad radiating in each line, and how you remember him in these different ways memorializes him. I am sorry for your loss. ❤
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Thank you, Lucy. I appreciate your kind words! 😀
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This is so touching and a lovely tribute to your beloved father. Grief and sorrow never really fades away. Thanks too for the precious photo.
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Thank you, Grace. 😀
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Memories have a tendency to reduce in capacity over time and the use of the word ‘amentalio’ accurately and sadly portrays this… A great write Frank, at your personal expense. :[ Thank you for sharing this with us all.
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Thank you, Carol!
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Frank, this really hit me in the heart. I’m missing a mother, grandmother and sister, most especially at this time of year.
‘He’s in my eyes, scanning the overgrown grass, and my hands, gripping the wheel.’
I love this: they surely carry on in us.
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Thanks, Ingrid!
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Oh, Frank. I feel your words.
❤
David [ben Alexander]
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Thank you, David!
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The build up to the haiku made that haiku so, so powerful. Really good haibun.
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Thank you! 😀
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They fade, and we try hard to stop it…. well written Frank.
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Thank you!
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Frank, this is so beautiful- tears are falling.
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Thanks, Linda.😃
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Heartbreaking. (K)
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Thank you!
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This is so moving, and such a beautiful tribute to your father, Frank! I am teary-eyed and felt every word.
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❤ ❤ ❤
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I wonder too. though for it’s been close to 25 years… I found part of my father every day inside… I don’t think I have to visit his grave to remember.
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Your love for your dad shines through here, Frank.
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Amentalio and a heartwarming tribute to your Dad.
Your a haibun wizard
Much💟love
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