The Glass Menagerie, by Tennessee Williams
I was Amanda, and he missed the poignance.

There at the end we sat as in family montage.
No bows, odd applause, though we had done well.

Just a few in the audience, a small black box
theater in Miami, post 9/11, before I remembered.

He sat two feet before my face, staring a loving smile.
His child had done well, that being me, since now I know.

“He has my nose, poor guy,” I thought to myself,
then looked away. It’s impolite to stare at the audience.

A party after the show, and he so shyly approached,
I, in pure ecstatic bliss, a bit of a drunken mess – that fast.

“I’m your father,” he said to me.
“I believe you,” I laughed. “I knew my mother had an affair!”

“You didn’t have to be rude!” he said, and walked away.
He was serious. I was just kidding, not believing.

“No, wait, I must just look like her. I hope you find her.”
I implored, attempting to heal the wound I’d made.

“I already have. It’s you.” He turned, and left.
Not one more word did we speak until his death.

When I finally remembered six months later,
his words saved my life. I’m not crazy!

I am not the person on my vital statistics!
They lied! They cheated! They tried to paint me crazy,

but I am not crazy. I am his child.
And, the power he gave me in so few words,

just like a father would – he gave me peace.
Just like a father does – he saved my life.