By Sean Haney
You always towered over me
with thick and calloused hands holding my own,
a stark contrast to your slow, melodic voice.
When young, you would take me to the sea,
marking the stars with stories of old,
Orion, Ursa Major, Crius.
As I grew you taught me how to understand
all that is unjust, all that is pure,
and to never take my world for granted.
I failed you.
As decades rolled past me I never considered
they were passing for you too.
Slowly your stately frame shrunk, slumped,
as your hair grayed and fell to the ground unnoticed.
When I saw all this, it was too late.
Instead of those decades of memories to be made
I had wasted them on money, the future,
what could be instead of what is.
Those last years I had with you never changed the way I saw you,
though your height had diminished,
and your supple flesh stiffened.
Your eyes still gleamed as you pointed at the sky,
marking the stars with stories of old.
I will always remember you as you were in my youth