1996

The last time I saw Michael
I thought I would be the one to offer comfort.
Instead, having made peace with his departure,
Michael focused his loving kindness on me
and we talked about my life.

I was on my way to see my father
for the first time in nine years
I was taking him to Utah
to see places where he’d grown up:
Thistle, Winterquarters, Scofield,
and to spend time with an old man
who really had no idea who I was, truly, in my heart.

All those years of silence.
All those years of self-defense.
Years of grief, growing, rebirth,
transformation, release, and ceremony.
I sure wasn’t going to tell Dad all that.
He wouldn’t “get” it, and he wouldn’t care
and I no longer needed him
to see me for who I am.
I had made peace with it.
He was an old man, an old neighbor, perhaps,
to whom I was willing to be kind,
whose transgressions I had forgiven,
and this was his last trip away from home.

Michael listened
Told me that I was beautiful
Told me that I deserved love
Felt sorry for my father and all that he had missed out on.
And I asked Michael why
Why is it that we confuse love
for that which it is not?
Abusiveness, neglect, hostility, avoidance,
selfishness, jealousy, fear, dependency–
these are not love.

Michael’s tears answered me.
He prayed for me, for healing,
and prayed for my father, too.

Michael was not confused.
His skin became translucent.
His love filled the room.