He was a mountain of few
words
a river flowing through the
house, mostly out.
Conversations were awkward
creating uncomfortable moments,
too many to count.
His love was his work
a place he escaped to without
guilt of leaving those behind,
considering it his duty;
I knew he would rather be somewhere
else.
He grew old without saying much
about it,
slowing his schedule but not around
the house.
He became ill and passed away.
I was living far away.
I never had a chance to say
goodbye.
Roger Singer 