Days Of Old

I visit the places from the wonder years —

around the streets and drives of my past.

Down the walks around blocks once journeyed.

Somewhere in time, they still last.

A bit older and a bit wiser —

I long for the days with Dad.

He lived in the heart of the city,

and now I see why he had.

Peaceful and quiet neighborhoods, little serene hideaways,

and a thousand trees above.

He couldn’t fight on any longer with her,

so he surrounded himself with love.

I now ride my bike through these places

that I would visit when

he and my mother had called it quits;

doing what was best for them.

I pass the temporary structures

where my father would place his things.

I sometimes wonder why I find peace here…

Is it because of the emotions that it brings?

Do I somehow demand a second chance

at life when I was young?

Do I try to make the things of the past

my security that never did come?


I stop to take a breather

and write about this personal season,

under a tree he used to sit beneath,

in another time, with different reason.

The rustling leaves are falling today,

and the sky is crisp with cloud.

I sit here reminiscing with a man who’s now gone,

wondering how his voice still speaks so loud.

There is something about this area

that takes me back to a time

when innocence was a virtue

and the same streets were so divine.

I hated life for so many years —

I hated my dad as well.

The picturesque views lost their luster,

and all life was consumed by hell.

But I grew old and he grew older,

and when he passed away,

I realized that the past was a lesson

to hold in current day.

I had forgotten all of the pain he’d caused me —

I saw the sin I have, too.

It made me realize how blessed I had been

under those same past skies of blue.

I thank God for what you showed me, Dad,

and I praise the Lord for spaces here

in the heart of the city we lived in —

where memories and exultation appear.

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