I stand outside a door
I knock
I wait
I listen.

I hear the sound of his horn
I nudge the door open and stick my head
into the room.
Father, I say and work my eyes over his
gaunt figure dressed in white linen cloths,
blowing timeless melodies out of his trumpet,
next to him his cigarette burns.

Father…dinner is growing cold, I say and wait.

outside the window is summer,
in the distance I hear the murmur of kids playing football
in the distance I hear barking.

the white curtain draws back
falls back in place
and draws back again.

as I stand there I remember myself being a boy
running after the football
in a cloud of dust
in a booming sound of voices
sweaty and wild
with scraped elbows and knees
with pure thrill in my eyes.

I now feel a warm sweet-smelling wind in my face
and keep my eyes on my father
there is hope, I think and feel a welling in my chest.
little did I know, though.

Father…

With his green and far away eyes
he looks up at me
a soft smile plays on his face.
in his hands, he holds his true love
a kind of love that listens
a kind of love that cares
a kind of love that sympathizes
a kind of love that understands.

I make to open my mouth, but I change my mind
as I close the door behind me
with the corner of my eye I catch his faint
but promising smile
a smile that says
everything will be ok, sport.
don’t you go on worrying
just sit at the table
dig in
and in a while I’ll come over
and everything will be alright.
just give me some time.

he then lowers his eyes
and begins to push streams of melodies
out of his trumpet
and into the perennial flow of time.