Dad Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

A man I call Dad is lying in a hospital bed, cut and bleeding
from an auto accident.
As I held his hand, I noticed how tired and scared he was,
holding my hand tightly until he was ready to go to sleep.
A man I call Dad, is now in surgery where hopefully he'll be
alright.
Strength and rapid healing have always been strong points of
his, but age has crept in and taken it's place.
At seventy-six, Dad has been doing remarkably well.
Age has mellowed him somehow, because even his Grandchildren
no longer call him 'Oscar the grouch' anymore.
Apparently aging turns some people around and helps them to
become grateful and filled with the grace of heaven soon to
be theirs.
A windy, stormy rendition of life with a man I call Dad,
slowly traipses through my mind, there's nothing of it I can
hold on to, they are only memories of the past.
Meanwhile, as I worry and pray for Dad, the insistent present
is all I can think about.
Feeling my Mom's presence close by, I know they'll soon be
happier than they were on earth.