Lines

He was the best father a young boy knew,
Same as saying the boy was the favorite son.
They traced the lines on each others faces

With index fingers, as they aged, and he grew.
Wrinkle, growth, scar, from what they’d done.
Both noticed the slow, small changes.

It was good, as good as the best father could do,
There was food on the table, laughter, fun,
Until boy became man, and men became strangers.

Now he traced the best father’s face like he used to
But no finger traced his face, that race was run,
No smile answered, to crease deeper places

And the favorite son wept, said, “Goodbye.  I love you.”
He went home with his wife, and his own favorite son,
Hugged them both, and softly traced the lines in their faces.

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