HI DAD

April 14, 2024 at 11:16 am (Thomas West Graves Jr.)

Thomas West Graves 1930-2024
William Arthur Graves 1957-1959

Hi dad, it's me, William---
the little guy who went away.
You'll never forget that April day---
when the world that was small took the world away.
Andy and Tommy were too young to remember,
but you were in your twenties. You could not look away.
Hi dad, it's me, William,
the little boy who caused you pain.
Pain causes more pain.
How do we stop tragedy from happening again?
I was the darling who said goodbye
and a whole life followed 
in which you couldn't cry
and had to be responsible.
Sarah came, and Ed.
I was the good child. I was dead.
Who could forget that April day
when normalcy ended?
In the days that followed,
days happy and calm,
normalcy, to live, was delicately defended,
pain, comfort, knowing, forgetting,
by mourning delicately blended.
Eternal, those records of my little death,
records stored in a room, in your mind, until now
as I welcome you into heaven
which, to them, is your death.
Who knows where we go from breath to breath?
Who knows what occurred until now?
You lived. I kept living---
only the mourners know how.
Only sadness understands my life.
Sadness, my mother, my sister, my wife.
Shadow of the cypress!
The long, appalling cloud
my comfortable shroud.
My life was mostly a shroud.
Muffled. Never loud.
Every day a sunny April day,
neither cold nor warm.
Flowers and birds of the yellow kind
Yell inside my quiet mind.
I kept living. Now you know how.
This memory wraps me in a crimson cloth,
this poem wraps me in a cloth that's white 
as Maryland meets Vermont tonight.
Hello, dad. William, here.
You tried to forget, and now you can forget, the tear.
Miraculous distance. And now we are near.
Do I have more to say
About what happened after that April day?
After I said goodbye, fearfully and alone?
Does life live beneath the stone?
The dead are awkward and unknown.
You stared into the darkness
as all mourners do.
Death doesn't provide much of a view.
Even imagination found it impossible!
The poets didn't know what to do!
Poetry falters when one dies at two.
I came down with a cough. 
I took some time off.
The world I missed is full of intricate sorrow,
some for today, and more for tomorrow.
So much I escaped,
though I never intended to.
I didn't say goodbye to you.
Your family looked into the darkness, too
(the family you loved)
And you wondered (o wonder of wonders!)
if I saw you. 
You don't recognize me---
I grew. My meals were few.
I thought, for many, many hours, pleasant thoughts.
I fed on heaven and poetry.
See how tall these made me!
They made me handsome and tall.
The roots and tendrils of poetry
made garlands for me in heaven.
See how tall poetry made me!
The memory of me is not all.
I saw you trying to be good.
I saw you chopping wood.
I saw you fixing cars and reading.
I saw you trying to be good.
I waited. Waiting was poetry.
Yes, I'm the one who caused you pain--- 
and mom (who is here) was at your side.
There are sadnesses which won't go away
despite a universe of tears;
there are sadnesses which move upon the movement of the years.
There are many things that go away.
To many, this thought is poetry 
But we can forget that now.
Here is a new poetry.
Let a new poetry show you how.
Once again, dad, you can move towards me.
Heaven is a yellow April day.
Time to be.
Hi dad. It's William. It's me.