Photo by Sabine van Straaten on Unsplash
A Father in Fragments
The memories I have of him
are not whole.
They are fragments—
a laugh one evening,
a rare kind word,
a softness that slipped through
like sunlight between blinds.
But they never lasted.
The fragments never became a picture.
They never built the image of a dad.
Only flashes—
just enough to keep me believing,
never enough to keep me safe.
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