Paul Vanni
Lifting her glasses,
I watch Mother lift her,
glasses to dab her eyes
with a handkerchief,
at the funeral home as
the Undertaker closes
the lid on your casket,
Father, closes the
lid just maybe on the
conflict between you and me.
I ask why I was so afraid,
why not once did I ever
stand up to you, ever
take you on, why I
worried my children would
incur your anger whenever
we visited Mother and you
in the white stucco home.
Now Neil Young’s song,
his lyrics, explode within me:
Helpless, helpless, helpless!
I felt helpless, knew that I
was helpless before the
power of your personality;
those lyrics swirl, race in my
despondent mind, reminding me
that I am helpless to change
what was, cannot alter the
truth that your passing
has left our conflict unresolved.