Mother and Father begin to die within me.

Thirty years after their stormy death

they steal away quietly from my rooms

and my hours of grace.

I know for sure the voices have ceased

and things are free. And bearing no grudge,

they will no longer visit my home. After all

a living man needs to stand here alone. Somewhere

Father wakes up now, shuffles in his sandals

and as usual pretends he doesn't see

how mother wipes her tears

as she knits a warm sweater

for her son on his way, at the way station.

home