An Emptiness
by Elouise
Hollowed out by loneliness
Overflowing with farm animal stories told and retold
Filled with edgy impatience when you were not holding forth
An aching emptiness devoid of compassion or empathy
For yourself or others who pleased you not
Constantly dreaming of unachievable plans and goals
A my way or the highway kind of man
Stalking happiness but rarely finding it in my presence
Convinced the world of regular people was as hollow
As your own unfulfilled plans and dreams
An empty cup unable to overflow
With blessings of praise or the joy
Of looking into your four daughters’ eyes
Without seeing the son you never had
Fighting to the bitter end to have things your way
Surrounded by people who cared for you
Even when you cared not for them
An off-tune cymbal full of noisy clanging
Signifying the agony of your debilitating shame and loneliness
How sad to love a father who never learned to love himself.
How horrifying to hear the bleakness of his life growing up.
How painful to know things might have been different.
I love my father.
I have forgiven him to the extent I’m able.
I am not the Judge of all the earth.
I pray for his soul and his redemption,
and that he is learning in death to love himself
as he has been loved.
This poem is my attempt to describe what I now see in my father. It’s based on my relationship with him from 1943 (the year I was born) until his death in 2010. He was 96 years old, months from turning 97. I was 66, months from turning 67.
Many thanks to Mary Oliver for her poem, A Bitterness. It got me wondering what I might write about my father from my perspective today.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 25 September 2019
Image found at vocal.media
Telling the Truth 
Having lost my father to an untimely death when I was still a toddler, but having a love/hate relationship with the man my mother married 6 years afterward; I find myself relating to your feelings. My former stepfather (who divorced my mom 20 years after their marriage) is still alive but in ill health. Knowing his family of origin and the dysfunction there I have also learned to forgive him (while not condoning his abuse toward me or others). I can even say that I have learned to love him… from a distance. It is a melancholy sort of love…
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Dan, Thanks so much for this comment. Your very last line rings true for me as well. “A melancholy sort of love.” Also from a distance….
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