As I walked into the room I saw the paper in his hand. He looked up. The expression on his face was new to me.
"Did you write this?"
"Yes, I did."
"Is it about me?"
"Yes." I smiled.
"I didn't know you felt that way." His face turned toward the kitchen window.
"You didn't know I love you?" I felt my eyes begin to fill up with tears.
“We’ve had our problems.”
“I know.” I didn’t want to think about that stuff right now.
"It doesn't rhyme." he said softly, looking down at the page.
"Some poems don't." I sat down beside him at the table.
"Did you mean..."
"I meant every word." I humbly interrupted.
He turned and looked me straight in the eyes; maybe for the first time ever. It was hard; but I looked right back at him. I had never seen my father cry before. His hand shook as he reached out.
His voice was heavy, "Son, I just want you to know..."
His words, and even his face, began to fade. Something was wrong. I struggled to clear my mind, to touch his hand; but I could not. I was a hostage trapped inside a cold, unfeeling grip.
A buzzing sound in the distance slowly grew in volume until I could no longer hear my father... or see him.
I awoke.
The tears of my dream mixed with the tears of my morning; tears for words much too long deferred. But those words mean little now. The time when they would have been precious … and priceless … has passed.
The regret that loads my mind will always be my burden; but regret will seek relief, even when I sleep.