MY FATHER
At age 82 my father has become a poem. He is now smooth as a stone in a mountain stream. A being worn down to the essentials. Like Hemingways old fisherman, he has learned humility. Neither pride nor ambition cloud his awareness. My father is wind and rain. He moves through the world as a force unto himself. Other currents move swiftly about him, but he is an eddy, circling slowly beside the shadowy shore. Each day he greets strangers, talks to friends, and admires the land and sky. Old anger and frustration have turned to ashes. Soon, time will complete its cycle, but he does not despair. Why should he when his heart is full of love?Calgary Thurs 08/10/00