With Father

[jscrashad]

I sit here,
On Sunday,
Watching the game,
Of autumn,
Changing to the game of winter,
And think about the days,
Of my youth.

I used to,
When he was around,
Perform this ritual,
With the man,
I now reluctantly call,
My father.

Sports,
For like many,
Fathers and sons,
Was the link,
Between my father and me.

In fall,
We would yell,
At the screen,
As we cheer our beloved,
Washington football team.

In the spring,
The NBA Ruled,
We could talk,
Ball and teams for hours.

In the summer,
We were not baseball people,
So we would hit,
The black top,
In the local city park.

But those joy full time,
Are now gone,
Like the bare fall trees,
That greets the cold,
December winds.

My father is gone,
Physical though not,
From my memory,
His betrayal,
Is too much for my soul to bear.

Things have changes,
I do miss the good old days,
The routine has not changed,
I just now do it alone,
And root,
For a different team.

Who knows?
Some day,
Things will go back,
Just how they used to be,
All that’s need,
Is a simple apology.