NOT MY DADDY

One of the perks of being a Blogger (not getting paid) is that you get to repeat old pieces from different venues. This one goes with the painting “Colors of Cyril”.

He died just a little over 9 years ago. What I miss the most is the “what could have been’.
Did he understand when we told him that “I did the best I could.” was not acceptable.
Did he believe us when we told him we forgive him? Did he accept the message of God’s love, forgiveness and grace?
We all cried. We embraced the brothers and sisters we never knew, we worried about the one who wouldn’t come, the one that couldn’t come and the one that didn’t know. Together we spread his ashes.
Did he smile at the thought that we all turned out all right? Did he regret that he didn’t see it happen?
He was my father, not my Daddy. He was an artist and a writer. He was an abuser and abused. He was a drug addict and an alcoholic. He was Bi Polar. He was good at multiplying (12-22 kids). He is part of me. He is part of who I am. Some of the good. Some of the bad?

When he died his mother gave me some of his poems. This one we all wrote together over the phone.


DID I / YES I DID /
YES THAT TOO / AND THAT /
NO I DON’T HAVE AN EXCUSE /
YES / I KNOW THAT IF I DID
THERE’S NO ONE LEFT
TO GIVE IT TO / YES / YES /
SORRY DOESN’T EVEN WORK FOR MYSELF /
WHY SHOULD I BELIEVE
IT MIGHT WORK FOR YOU

CYRIL