p o e t
r y
g a l l e r i e s
Meaning behind :
"THE BOX"
When I was three, my father was killed in a motorcycle accident. He was
heading east, and a driver pulled out in front of him. Later, it turned out
the driver was blinded by the sun and didn't see my father heading in his
direction. In addition, my father wasn't wearing a helmet since he had just
bought the motorcycle and was on his way home. I barely remember the
funeral, but I know it was grand. He was a police officer in a small town,
so everyone showed up to the sad event.
Looking back, however, I only have one memory of him tucked away inside my
mind. The memory is of my brother, my mom, and I going to visit him at the
apartment my father was renting after my parents divorced. All I recall is
the door being opened, and me running and jumping into his arms. That's all.
Three seconds and nothing more. Who knows if it's even true, but it is
something I carry with me. Since then, my mother remarried, and my new
step-father became my "real" father after years of rejection from both my
brother and me. Up until my 9th birthday, my wish was to have my real father
back into my life. Every year, before the candles were out, that is the
prayer I requested to God. Of course it never came true (in the sense I
wanted).
When I go back home, I still visit his grave. And I sit and wonder how my
life would have been different with him in it. I hear funny tales from my
grandparents about him, but I will never know his favorite color, never know
if he was right or left handed, and never know how he would have taken the
news that his son was gay. I think he would have been accepting, but like I
said, I'll never know.
the accident scene
where my
father collided with a car while
on his motorcycle
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