Poem: Father at Sea

For the man before the breaking,
who returned with saltlight in his hands.

And I saw you—

not in the house of memory,

but in the house of the sun.

You were returning from the sea,

your hands salted with labor,

your shoulders crowned with morning.

The fish shimmered in your net

like blessings from the deep,

and the waves sang your name

as if they had always known you.

No anger followed you home.

No shadow walked beside you.

Only the wind,

and the joy of simple bread.

And I said in my heart:

Here is the man before the burden.

Here is the man before the breaking.

You, whose voice once startled the night,

now silent,

now shining.

You, whose love I feared,

now soft as the tide

that kissed your boat’s return.

Was this the father

the world forgot to give me?

Or the soul

who lived beneath the wound?

And when I woke,

my heart full of salt and light,

I whispered into the morning:

I hope you can see yourself

in the way I saw you then.

I hope you know how beautiful you are,

even if the world tells you otherwise.

For I saw not the man

who could not carry me,

but the man

who carried the weight of his own undoing—

and still returned

with the sea’s silver offering.

In that vision,

I did not turn away.

I bowed.

And in that light,

I loved you.

Not for what you were,

but for what you were meant to be—

and maybe still are,

somewhere beyond the veil,

fishing in peace,

bathed in the golden eye of God.