A Father

It's just a number on the calendar, just another stone carved date, easily tripped upon in the graveyard, sometimes tripped over in memory. I swore I'd be a better father than he, but then how does one ever know no matter what kindness children say? I never meant to be so far away. I told my father I loved him as if it is possible to love absence like waiting for cooling summer rain breaking through the August heat. No, absence is not love, it is hunger, it was a hunger filled with laughter, friends, soft kisses came and went. Loss is like being a son or a father. Does anyone get to keep their father, to outdo him in devotion, sacrifice, to be there even in death to reassure, like a mossy boulder in a quiet forest?