The Return of the Prodigal Son - a self-made man

“How you’ve grown! You look great, fit and strong!
Still pumping iron? A self-made man.
How the years have flown by…
Your mother would be so proud.”

“And what about you?”

“So-so, some aches and pain, my heart, my legs.
But I can’t complain. Nothing much changes – it is what it is…
Now I’ve a pain in my neck and some dust in my eyes…”

“If only I’d known.”

“It’s OK, you’re here now.
Be careful not to slip on the cobblestones!”

“You look well too…”
forcing a weak smile of shame.
“Maybe you’ve shrunk!” 
A nervous laugh, followed by a frown.
“You OK?”

“It’s fine. Let’s move on.”
Wounded sunken heart of stone. No emotion.
“You’re taller for sure! I remember when…so long ago…

“Let’s go this way, there’s no need for us to rush.
We can walk slowly to the main attraction, while we talk.
I remember the memorial is down there on the left”.

So much to say, but there’s no time now.
Only hushed whispers and unspoken thoughts.
“If only I’d known”, how those words haunt.
“I would have come sooner, but then… somehow I couldn’t…”

“Anyway, you’ve always known I loved you,
even if I never said so. Haven’t you?”

“But why did you never tell me? That’s what hurts.”

“Must you go now?”
The face of stone.
“And your mum?”

“I’ll be late for my train. I’ll be back. I promise. It won’t be long.
We’ll take a photo next time, or I’ll miss my flight.”

Too late to fill the missing years. There’s barely time to say goodbye.
“Unless I’m mistaken, it’s starting to rain.
It was good to see you today. Must do it again soon”.

“When?”
A last embrace, a kiss on the face of stone.

“Soon. Promise.”

“I hope so.”
Murmured in the wind.

‘What? Did you say ‘sorry’?”

“I said, ‘I hope so’.”

“Oh OK.”

A cloud of dust swept across the square
and the wet dust remained clinging to the stone.
He stepped away and hope was gone in an instant.
Too many regrets. The memorial silently wept.

             FILIUS OPTIMUS
          VENIT, VIDIT, FUGIT

(Inspired by Giorgio de Chirico’s paintings, his tombstone and Gabriele Tinti’s poem “Prodigal Son”)