He walked a fine line;
a blend between temper and tenderness.
A battle scar of life running down his chest
to his umbilicus; he was as good at his racket
as a father ought be. He was unfinished,
a draft of who he could’ve been.
A man that could string good days together
like strikes in a perfect game. Spare me the
denigration, any crack in his foundation
was merely a trace at best. Nothing could
augment my current state or make me
refrain from exulting the man. He would
latch onto his family and hold on for dear life.
And so it had been with my father!
Written for the SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #61
THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART 