We buried papa today as everyone listened

to hear the last rites as teardrops glistened.

The wood song of winter, the boughs of branches in play,

scratched like a record in the dust to lay.

Tears conceal the memory of a time long ago

when I gave him a gift topped with a bow.

It was a little white box wrapped in paper of gold

that still, in death, he continued to hold.

It was a time of depression, a time most unkind,

when anguish racked both the body and mind.

We had little money, but we were spent of despair.

There was no time for joy nor time to spare.

The winter was relentless and all embittered white;

but papa, never once, gave up the fight.

Papa worked until midnight to make sure we were fed.

The wood he burned was from his king-sized bed.

He slept on the hard floor; but I couldn't sleep at all.

My guilt and my shame were turned to the wall.

My bed was soft and warm, and I was doubly dressed.

Even as a child, I knew I was blessed.

One day while he was working and mama was asleep,

I found the paper she wanted to keep.

It was glittering and gold and all shiny and new,

and I knew right then what I had to do.

I ran to the bedroom and opened my drawer of socks.

I took out the empty little white box;

and I filled it with kisses, that I made from the air.

I closed and wrapped it with tenderest care.

When papa came home and saw it, he looked down at me,

chiding me for acting so wastefully.

I handed him the gift; and he looked woefully sad,

sorry for yelling and acting so mad.

With a look of bitter sweetness, he lifted the lid;

and I will never forget what he did.

He scolded me for being so seditious and wild,

screaming that I was an indolent child.

"You cannot give the present of an empty, old box,

that you've hidden among your dirty socks!"

My tears fell in silence as fruits that no tree could bear.

My sugar-sweet smile too heavy to wear.

"But papa! It's not an empty box at all," I cried.

"It's filled with a thousand kisses inside.

I wanted you to have them whenever we're apart,

to know that I love you with all my heart."

Papa was crying, which I had never seen before.

He fell like a teardrop upon the floor.

Then, he begged for my forgiveness, bowed down and he prayed,

thanking the Lord for the gift He had made.

As years went by, things got better; and papa got old.

His bones were frail, and he was always cold.

I took care of him and bought him a new king-sized bed.

With each spoonful, I made sure he was fed.

I would sleep on the floor on the nights I was able.

The gold box sat on his bedside table.

He never let it out of sight, and the gold was dim.

It became a semblance of love to him.

One morning when I awoke, he had the box in his hands.

His eyes were covered with little white strands.

It seemed that he was smiling, had dreamt away his pain.

I would not see his eyes open again.

We buried papa today as everyone listened

to hear the last rites as teardrops glistened.

The wood song of winter, the boughs of branches in play,

scratched like a record in the dust to lay.

Tears conceal the memory of a time long ago

when I gave him a gift topped with a bow.

It was a little white box wrapped in paper of gold

that still, in death, he continues to hold.

Now, I am crying, which I have rarely done before.

I fall like a teardrop upon the floor.

Then, I beg for my forgiveness, bow down and I pray,

thank God for papa who's now gone away.