The Child of My Father
Father, where is your child?
I searched for him in the valleys, in the dust;
the wind carried his whispers,
but his voice was lost.
O child, where have you gone?
The earth bears no footprint,
the sun casts no shadow;
the sky drinks your name,
but the stars do not return it.
Father said:
My son, you will not find him where you look.
He was taken in a gust of sand,
before rivers dried,
before olives bore fruit.
My father’s father heard me speak,
his voice heavy with time:
I too, lost in war’s wreckage,
searched for a child;
they took my father, they took my mother,
left me the bones of a lifeless house.
I became a man too soon,
a boy raising his brothers—
until war struck me down again.
I fought and bled,
I screamed beneath their hands,
and when I returned,
I searched for the child once more—nothing.
You will not find the child of your father, my son.
Nor will he find his own.
Father, is that why you never mourned?
Perhaps the desert taught you silence,
as the revolution taught you loss.
Did your father’s scars shape you
into an unbreakable thing that no longer seeks?
I raised the sons of others, said Father,
became what I was denied,
built a home of stone,
so no wind could carry me away.
But Father,
if your son is gone,
why do I wear his face?
Why do I walk his path?
Did you not bury him in me?
So Close Behind
For Mohamed Abid Noor. May the warmth you carried live on in every
prayer, every poem, every passing breeze.
My friend walked down that path alone;
not lost or sad, just chasing familiarity.
So close behind I was—but a barrier stretched between us.
I turned away in the hope that one day I’d return.
And return I did, but the friend was gone.
Now I see the path, the flowers, but not his smile;
a good mile where we walked together through every storm,
the cold warmed by the breath of who he was.
I’ll pray for him:
May he taste the fruit of heaven and drink from its springs.
I think of when we’ll meet again, but where was I?
Not first in line, no last farewell to a taken friend.
The congregation prays; he is carried to his resting place
while fate stands between us—an obstacle en route.
I am trapped beneath its two-ton weight,
a broken hand, so close behind yet not in time.
How worthless, how distraught I feel,
knowing I have lost this chance.
Artwork courtesy of our featured artist Ernest Williamson III, PhD
