On this first Father’s Day without Richard Picciuto in the world, I thought it appropriate to post a poem that he wrote about his love for his sons. It is a favorite of most readers of Richard’s second book, Moonlit Weeds and the last sentence of the poem is the most quoted when people mention their favorite lines from the book. It is tough for us to read, now that he is gone, but at the same time it is comforting.
The older boy, five years old, nestled in my right arm
the younger, age two, resting against me held securely in my left.
It was February, the driveway was shoveled leaving snow banks behind,
I’m kneeling down to their height, the boys have snowsuits on.
The smiles and love are evident, a time in life when
youth knew no safety but their parents.
Too soon there would be no kisses between father and sons,
I watched thm kiss their mother with no envy or jealousy.
I knew all too well the reality of Oedipus, the writings of Freud,
and the collective unconscious reasoning of Jung.
I don’t need a photo to remind me of this bygone time,
I was there, I felt it, knew it, and it’s fine that it ended.
Life is a continuum with no constants, forever flowing,
I still love my sons, but I dearly miss my boys.