A Sense of Yearning

"I watch my daughter place the flowers Over me; wipe a tear, and smile; The smile, more effulgent than the flowers, Lingers on; The smile matters; The smile that can alter the scent of death. Not a Sunday she has missed, ever; Not a Sunday when I haven’t watched her sit By me, and talk about the love of her life And smile demurely; I wish she knew I listened to her; I wish she knew how I Loved to see her in the lovely yellow frock And how I wish she hadn’t coloured her locks; I am alive, now, for I watch her fall asleep into The bosom of womanhood; I am just Invisible, to the eyes that still carry tears; Death is the finality; This I had known and believed; The decisiveness in it; the conclusiveness; But in death did I realise the worth of living; And that none in the world mattered, but The ones who call me back.” “My daughter, if you are listening, I shall never be Too asleep to watch you run your fingers Over the name of your father; I see the same moon, the same stars In the