The Never Ever Knowing

After my dad died

leaving in his wake

a courageous tuna fish sandwich

that sat perched 

like a headstone with garnish

on the observation deck of our

refrigerator

I was able to unearth 

a few small seeds of secrets, 

that felt as heartbreaking

as the Valentine’s Day card 

addressed to my mom

which wediscovered during the

archeological dig of his sock drawer.  

After they perish,

the hidden universe of the lost parent 

is visible only

through the telescope of wanting 

which does little more than 

magnify 

the constellation of their pain 

and the fallen meteors of possibilities

which perished 

like them

in a streaking flash of light.

Now,  at this late stage age of mine,

after spending half my life

trying to understand 

what cracked his eggshell heart 

I have reached the conclusion

that all I can do is accept 

the never ever knowing

which keeps me close to him,

touched by his frailty,

moved by the wisdom born of his 

silence,

and his need,

like mine,

to dance in puddles of moonlight 

and 

later,

long after the networks played

the national anthem,

cry.