The Blessing of a Father
He slips through the slats of his
living room window, and out of his
house.
He flees his soul high, shedding the
scales of darkness, of scathes, and
with bruises.
But the soul soars higher than his
wishes, and so, in the dark-as-death
night,
in the distant lights, bold as ever,
and the twinkly sky, alive as ever,
his form yet stands, as a block
frozen, as a pole, so erect, as a
body, uninhabited.
Heartbeats away, moans he, on the
knees of his sore legs and bruised
feet.
A tummy ache, a muscle ache, a bone
fracture maybe—all make him moan and
only so.
His mouth stinks of some of
yesterday’s part-insane choices and
part-sane mistakes.
His entirety hates the feeling of
helplessness, the unending torment—
he thus moans.
Within, nevertheless, he knows; he
knows it is fear that makes him moan
the deepest, the longest—he thus
moans, thinking: H O M E.
The sun sets, elsewhere, as he sits
in a suit and a tie in a room alone.
A chair swings, coffee steams,
thoughts rise and fall, rise and
fall.
Moments spin to moments, and a coffee
mug is empty and aside and
forgotten.
Fingers make sounds among themselves,
then against a key and another.
The clock ticks and ticks and, as he
sits back and sighs, it is past
midnight.
She smiles at the door and walks
away; he rises, sighing his thoughts
away,
shuts his devices off, takes his ring
off, loosens his tie, and shirt, and
mind.
It is just 3 am, in another world,
“Just 3 am,” he thinks,
as he walks his thoughts forth and
leaving back, pieces of regret—
he needs none of that, and none of
the memories (the tasty ones too).
His head holds secrets, as his chest
does, as his groin does, and, oh, as
his pockets, too, do.
He stacks them in some dark corners—
in the recesses of his mind.
He unlocks his apartment, thinking,
“it is just 3 am.”
He tip-toes to the living room,
collapses on a couch, and shuts his
eyes.
It is just 3 am. His world is alive,
while the rest is asleep.
Fathers, I have been thinking—who are
these people?
I am alive today because of one such
person, and today, I am one such
person.
Yet, as I stare at my blank page,
scaling through scores of thoughts,
I think of this:
A father is a man, and yet, unlike
any other man, he must see himself,
first as nothing,
and then, as someone loveable;
he must learn to love, first himself,
before he can whisper the words to
any other.
Most importantly, a father must see
himself as everything,
and then, as a nobody, deserving of
nothing;
for he must learn to give, first of
himself, everything, before he can
ask of any other.
But why would anyone forget this?
A father is just human too, and like
any other,
is burdened with faults, countless,
and is bound to make endless
mistakes.
A father, is only so, if his
responsibility of another’s guidance
and safety and providence
remains in his core purpose—these,
supplied with love.
For upon every parent, God bestows
the most divine of duties.
It is a blessing to be one; it is a
blessing to father.
Dear fathers, remain that blessing to
all the children of the universe.
©benie_langat, 2021.
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Benie Writes 