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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1766783-Leather-Glove
Rated: E · Poetry · Family · #1766783
A father's nightmare.
A man long in years but not in age,
Lingers in his yard on a beautiful clear blue day.
Sweat beading on his skin from finished chores.
He couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment,
Working in his yard with his family in the home,
That he worked hard to afford to own.

He wasn’t using much imagination as his day grew better,
When his boy bounded around the side of the house,
His hair a mess and his smile wide,
Carrying his ball and glove.
“Throw me the ball dad,” the boy called.

He couldn’t say no to the twinkle in the lad’s eyes,
He had so much pride in this child he helped bring to life.
Could he be but five when he acted so much older?
He hoped with every day that his boy would be a better man than he.
He held high expectations of the wonder his boy would become.

There they played father with son in the sunlight.
The ball flew from father to son and back again.
He watched his boy grow with each pitch,
Until when his arm finally failed his boy was a man.
He loved this man most dearly and enjoyed watching him grow.

They sat under the shade of a tall tree on the green grass,
Simply chatting about this and that,
And the things fathers and sons discuss.
His heart was heavy and full and he was content to see,
How his son had grown to be a great man,
Wise and wealthy with happiness and success.
They showed no signs of ending the moment.

He glanced over at the calling of his tormented wife.
He did not understand her heaviness as she held his hand.
He was full of joy just sitting with his pride and joy,
But a sudden foreboding filled his heart as he looked back to his boy.

His boy was gone and the day turned dark with rain,
And he was racked with pain he could not begin to bear.
He held in his other hand the small glove his boy had once wore.
Through his tears and torment he could see the small box that held his son.
It held the son he would never know or hold again.
The gray stone stood a silent memoir with words sown with sorrow.

He held his wife and other children as tears flowed,
As the prayers the people prayed to relieve the pain.
The casket was slowly falling into the hole that would hold it.
The small glove tucked beside the boys peaceful face.
All the man’s hope and happiness lay inside the leather.



Vincent W. Myers
Written July 2004



Note to reader:  I pray to God this stays just a dreadful fear of a father who misses his son.
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