Category: Uncategorized

Call it an accident of circumstance, if you must—

a boy who stepped behind the stones to let the seasons turn,

leaving the crowded tables and the daytime people

to quiet rooms where fewer fires burn.

They think the silence is an empty choice,

a solitary drift upon a dark, uncharted sea,

or that a lifetime carried at the border’s edge

is only what was left of who I used to be.

They do not know the math of iron and the bone.

When heaven breaks upon the gravel floor,

a child does what he must to keep his breath,

and draws the bolt against the heavy door.

It was not surrender; it was quiet sovereign will.

I built the wall because the house was burning down;

I gathered every stone to shield the spark,

far from the judging eyes that ruled the town.

This solitude was never cold retreat,

but an enduring, fierce, and sacred preservation.

The boy who held the perimeter in the dark

laid down the deep, unyielding foundation.

I survived the world that fractured at my feet;

I lived the only way the body knew.

And every quiet boundary I kept

was simply keeping faith between the two:

the child who held the line against the storm,

and the man who walks the morning, breathing through.

My birth arrived on a day I cannot recall,

But they tell me the solstice sun covered it all.

The longest of days, bathed in a summer glare,

A Father’s Day Sunday, heavy in the air.

Now, I find the calendar plays a cruel joke,

Preferring the quiet where the midnight spoke.

The extra hours of daylight offer me no grace,

Just a burning sun that I cannot embrace.

I seek the deep shadows where the timber stands tall,

Where the judging rays of the summer never fall.

I avoid the bright beaches and the glaring heat,

Finding my sanctuary in a shaded retreat.

But the years turn around, and the mocking returns,

A fatherless child while the solstice sun burns.

When the calendar aligns in its brightest display,

The world only highlights what was taken away.

“You talk to yourself to hear yourself speak,”

My mother would say, her patience worn thin.

The youngest of three, a ghost in the hall,

Watching the shadows of evening close in.

Solitary hours before dinner was made,

A boy creating a world on the floor.

Now the habit remains like an old wooden latch

Keeping the winter away from the door.

For silence is fertile, a wild, empty space

Where the ghosts of old history are easily made.

I anchor my mind when the perimeters fade,

To keep the long loneliness outside the gate.

Let the world call it strange to converse with the air;

It is only the masonry guarding the deep.

When the room grows too heavy,

I break through the dark—

I talk to myself to hear myself speak.

Casseroles were always her go-to dish,

An economy born of her heart’s favorite wish—

Anything saved us from extra pans,

Yet beauty was served by her gentle hands.

Chili mac, baked spaghetti, or crispy grilled cheese,

Simple comfort she crafted to nourish and please.

She loved to feed family, gathered and sweet,

And one of her favorites was Spanish meat.

A treasure passed down from her mother before,

Like meatloaf unraveled and scattered once more.

It filled up our table, a weekly delight,

A honest, good supper to end every night.

But savory dinners were just half the art—

Cookies and cakes held a place in her heart.

She’d sample each batch as the mixing was done,

Stealing a bite just to test every one.

Growing up raised on the food from her stove

Is a memory wrapped in a blanket of love.

Though I only can master a dish, maybe three,

Her handed-down recipes stay close to me.

With Midwestern heart and a soul full of grace,

She turned simple ingredients into a place—

Where everything coming right out of her aisle

Was the best comfort food by a country mile.

The shelves were heavy with the books she left behind,

An endless archive gathered by a curious mind.

Cookbooks by the hundreds, tastes of every land,

Yet the truest treasure came directly from her hand.

For tucked between the recipes of butter, spice, and yeast,

Lay handwritten edits for a family’s quiet feast.

A penciled alteration, a measure to correct,

A gentle score of dishes that had earned her deep respect.

To trace her cursive letters brings a warmth of yesterday,

Yet stirs a quiet ache for all that slipped away.

She collected every volume, every title that she could—

Leaving notes along the margins to remind us of the good.