I have a premonition
A strong feeling that when I finish my memoir
I’ll be 99 and a widow;
My father will be long gone by then;
I’ll be sitting alone in my bed, cleaning its final draft;
My children and grandchildren will be healthy and successful;
Independent and self-sufficient;
But they will never leave me on a holiday to be alone.
It will include all the wonderful things about my father,
But he will never read it;
I hope that no one finds my memoir,
And that it is never published;
Never read by another one’s eyes and never touched by anyone’s misplaced hands;
I hope my children will never know
The miseries I have gone through;
I wish for my story to remain a mistery,
Lying on the floor of the ocean, unfound like the Diamond of Hope.