Perhaps Father Should Have Taught me Songs Heal

Grief and solitude are brothers of destruction –
my dictionary says they can be used interchangeably.
My father was teaching me to be a hard man,
how not to smile. He believed smiles make one too soft,
like a wet earth for sorrows to creep in, burrowing holes
for more woes to find ranches. In one of his lessons,
he said I needed to learn to bottle grief in my body,
that men don’t cry. This means killing the water bags in my eyes.
But the day the news of mother’s journey beyond
reached him, he broke into constellations of dirges.
He screamed as if mother once lived in his voice,
and singing aloud would resurrect her. I realized there,
he was seeking healing though in the arms of requiem.