Father Time

My father's kitchen table

was a hand-me-down

from my grandmother,

the paint-chipped surface

would hug your coffee

in the smokey blue haze

when the old man wouldn't-

couldn't.

There was love in that house

though I don't recall

ever feeling like I needed

to hear it then

like I do now,

it was everywhere-

it was in the ice cold pepsi-

the door that wouldn't open

from the seasonal shift-

in the soggy food dish

that was my husky's-

even the ghost of my mother

that haunted my father

until he found peace

through his most unforgiving battle.

I remember stepping over

the buckets upstairs

that would catch the water 

from the leaky roof

and caring more about 

the girl who wasn't calling me

than the slow erosion

of what had been the last place

that I can remember 

calling home.

My father's voice echoes 

within those walls

for me to slow down

not run

through the house.

Time was moving fast enough

for him

all he wanted

was to slow it down

just long enough

to hug me.