Under Your Armor of Anger


In my pocket, I keep regrets.

Now and then, I take them out,

hold them in my hand,

and I look at them.

Their edges are sharp.

They cut deep and leave scars.

Constantly reminding me

I failed to see

that though you seemed stronger,

you hid a fragile heart of glass,

under your armor of anger.

It’s almost Father’s Day, and every time that day would come around, I’d vacillate and wonder if I should call my dad.  We’ve always had a tumultuous relationship, sprung from being so much alike, in so many ways.  It’s strange how most children would never admit that to look at their parent, they could also see a part of themselves.  I remember saying to myself over and over that I would not, could not ever be like him.  He passed away last April, and having heard stories about him through the eyes of relatives and close friends, it is only now I can accept the fact that my dad and I were more similar than we were different.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.  I see you in me.  Thank you.