Like reaching for a smoke after you quit,
like crossing knee-on-knee inviting pain
but helplessly habitual, it’s fit
that I should miss you, even though disdain
and criticism are the strokes you gave
me growing up and aging with you near.
Nostalgia, distance, sentiment might save
your reputation, yet I hold a clear
remembrance, fortified by verse and notes
in journals, diaries, and stories done
with fiber pens or pixels: tales and quotes.
I might have been respected as a son –
needs met, expressions heeded, loved for sure.
I miss you though you’re pushing 94.