How Is It To Write?

My father helped me with framing questions. "How is it to write?" I asked. He also helped me with answers. Here's one for him. Happy Father's Day. Late like always. ***** (1) Know that you're growing when His clothes start to fit you great Know that you're growing when Love for him comes with hate Know that you're growing when Life throws at you some haunts Know that you're growing when All of that's solved by those taunts Know that as a child you never really grew His laughter used to make everything new (2) Know that you've grown when His clothes make you feel old Know that you've grown when All love and hate for him is sold Know that you've grown when You have problems, never to share Know that you've grown when About his taunts you stop to care Know that you've never grown all this while It's all a waste if you can't make him smile

 Difficult times create tough people. For the weak, it makes strong friends. To the weak me and my stronger friends  —  my fireplace calls. *** Very long long ago, once in what I'd call the olden times It was good; if you tried describing the life of mines When, over the crackling noise of the flames I could hear those jokes and loud exclaims But now my beloved fireplace sits free of wood I thought, I wished I would burn it alight if I could Come back, you all, again, if you want, not if you don't I might not be able to live forever, for real, I won't I wait for you all, to attend my life's epilogue Get our cherished desserts and a wooden log

To all the parents and grandparents. To their love. To the void they create. *** Many untouched things, the things we rarely pick One of those things is my father's old walking stick By the dusty brown windowsill, it stands stringed The stick has a friend, an annoying friend in wind Wind whistles by the numerous window openings Playing with the stick and fiddling with its strings The stick forbids the wind, tells not to disturb him "Don't trouble me, I can't talk to you before it's dim!" "Why?" The wind asked the stick, ever so playful "Seeing blossoms? Knitting mittens out from wool?" "Keep shush!" The stick barked haughtily at the wind But the naughty wind pestered the stick and grinned "What do you see? Why are you so focused? Why?" The staunchly stick didn't bother or even bat an eye "Don't you see, oh foolish wind, what I always see? I'm my owner's soul, I watch my kids grow up in glee."