A Second Heart

An Ode to My Father

A gentle boy

born into an age

where violence was king

and war was its stage.

The ’50s taught men

to swallow the storm;

mistook kindness for frailty—

made suppression the norm.

His dad was his hero,

but his love tasted tart,

for war had left him

with shrapnel in his heart.

Yet still, you loved him,

amidst his verbal assault,

for he didn’t know any better;

it wasn’t his fault.

You promised yourself

that you would be different:

a father who expresses his love,

not cold and distant.

But no one taught you

what to do with a heart that feels

everything.

So as you grew up,

you learned to how numb.

Bottle by bottle,

the screams became a hum.

You drowned out the world;

the pain was too loud.

Years of abuse

left your mind in a shroud.

Distance became your refuge.

Anger, your armor.

If self-harm was a plant,

then you were its farmer.

You didn’t just harm yourself,

for we were hurting too.

Every story has two sides,

but hatred isn’t good glue.

For years you blamed the world

for your self-created hell.

The bottle had taken my dad

and given me his shell.

But I’m sensitive too;

I couldn’t handle the strain

of emotional baggage

that came with your blame.

So I searched for a solution;

the rift needed a mend.

If you couldn’t be my father,

I’d settle for friend.

I watched in hope

as you’d promise to change.

But that candle blew out;

progress was always downrange.

I still loved you, of course,

though it got placed on a shelf.

It was hard to love my dad

when he didn’t love himself.

So when your heart broke

six times in one week,

I felt my own tighten;

the outlook was bleak.

A mixture of fear and anger,

I felt I’d been wronged.

You asked me to come home

as if you’d been there all along.

They opened your chest

and stopped your heart.

And in that quiet space,

something else came apart.

You came back softer,

unburdened—spirit clearer.

As if bitterness had been bypassed,

and fate had shown you the mirror.

I guess it took dying to bring you alive.

Before death, you were just living,

but now your children see it:

the veil of darkness is lifting.

It took seventy-three years

for your heart to relax,

and for that I’m grateful—

I have my dad back.

I’m not here to forgive you,

for you’ve done nothing wrong.

The boy who once felt too much

did his best to be strong.

You did not fail us—you survived.

And now, you are healing.

And for the first time, perhaps,

you’re embracing your feelings.

The prodigal father has returned,

no longer estranged.

Now, I see, it’s my turn to heal—

no more must I wait for you to change.

I love you, Dad.