My Unsaid Everything

Now that his Mother is gone, my Father
broad chested and mountainous is reduced
to broken slabs of concrete.
He was young once, also
developed a complex, also
now yearning to speak what is locked
inside, too
and the Daughter, with the unsaid everything
ringing true
in bones and cartilage looking like
the swollen arthritic hands of the matriarch
in her bed, eyes closed and
unresponsive.

If I love you I will tell you
next time;
I keep saying 'next time'...

He is angry now
at God, when he looks up
scowling and screaming,
if fists could pound a Savior,
he would pummel.
The words have been replaced with fear -
with his boyhood resurfacing
and counting - one, two, three
instances of regret.
I am the Daughter counting
my own
but it is not spacious enough for me
in there.

I am not my Father,
and if I love you I will tell you:
this time.
I swear.