Daughters, Fathers
When a friend tells me
about her father, his Parkinson’s,
his dementia, his shuffling feet,
we are no longer
two separate women
two separate men
but a small congregation
of daughters and fathers.
Daughters whose hearts ache
for the dads who were rocks
and heroes. Fathers who worry
over losses they cannot name.
What can we do but listen
to each other and say, thank you.
Remember when our little hands
felt safe inside our dads’? The warmth.
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