The Man I Loved

On the death of my father.

I stare at your photograph,
the only thing I have left of you,
and I remember the summer you were taken from us,
that sweltering August day.
While I slept unknowing,
little child that I was,
you left your cold, sterile hospital bed
to take your place in the heavens.
Within seconds, a swarm of nurses descended
to carry away your body-
Fifty years of life and love
reduced to a shadow of a man
lying on a stretcher.
I hold your photograph close to my breast
and I study your eyes,
the eyes you passed along to me.
In those eyes I see joy and contentment
and a hint of sacrifice,
but most of all, I see love.
Tears fall from my eyes,
the eyes that so resemble yours,
and I weep for the man you were,
the man you could have been,
the man you are no more:
the man I loved.