Catharsis in writing is a main factor of how I’ve managed to deal with the sudden passing of my father. He had a heart attack on the soccer fields where he volunteered most of his time, as well as where I spent most of my childhood playing soccer. The theme of the grass growing longer is because when he went down, he had mown the grass in preparation for Opening Day of soccer season. In this poem, I envision him haunting the fields and I wish I could talk with him at least one more time.
Late nights spent pacing –
pacing up and down an empty field.
The children have gone home,
the goals stored away again.
Did they throw the trash away,
and lock the bins properly?
Pacing over grass that leaves no footprints,
screaming to no one who can hear.
The grass grows longer,
as the night grows darker.
Around the corner is the illuminated Starbucks,
watching patrons mix and mingle in the warm air.
Locked out of the warm coffee-house,
locked to a green field.
The inability to experience the earthy goodness,
damning that long green grass.
Pacing and pacing and pacing again,
walking the lines of the fields.
As another night fades into a pink morning,
with teary eyes the first soul appears.
Keys in hand and a heavy heart weighing,
screaming without a voice that the day must continue.
Little feet are meant to pitter patter across that long grass,
little hearts will be heavy with wet eyes to match.
Pacing the same fields that were home for too many years –
this day must continue.
Haunted by the long grass covering the fields,
but the dead don’t tell tales.
Though rather than a cemetery to pace,
one finds peace in a field.
The way the grass grows back,
in a hauntingly familiar place.
Featured Image via alexcentomo.