Child of Morphine
I became broken, and it broke my pride.
I wouldn’t have let them all see when I cried.
When we get older, we put up these walls.
We do not hold hands and we don’t play with dolls.
But it hurt too much, the holes in my bone.
Though I was afraid, I was far from alone.
There in the hospital, writhing in pain,
I felt his big hand with its big bulging veins,
His soft furry skin, all wrinkled with age,
So ever familiar, yet ever so strange.
It reached out for mine, seeing my struggle–
But I’m twenty three, that’s too old to snuggle!
Yet all the pain medications had me
Feeling as though I was only just three.
I took it in mine, and drifted to dreams.
My father will always be Daddy, it seems.
© Rebecca M. Loomis, 2016
About this poem: Last week, I underwent an extensive surgery for my ankle. I spent one of the longest nights of my life at the hospital, and my dad stayed with me through it all. In the morning when my head finally cleared, I looked back and realized I had held his hand on multiple occasions throughout the night. Being delirious, fatigued, in pain and on medication, my prideful walls crumbled down and I reverted to the child within me, and let my father be Daddy again.