The Flowers That Are Dead

My father didn’t cry until my brother did. It was the final good-bye between three men, who are all told that they are not the type of people to cry because they are not me or her. Don’t cry they plead to themselves. Don’t show this emotion. My little brother was the first to give in to the nature, The first to show who he truly is, The first to not only weep as a father left but also start a movement between every man that knows not to cry. Soon after my father caved. The tears of a man who hasn’t cried even when he landed upside down on the motorcycle track was sobbing holding his son so hard begging he won’t have to let go. In his mind he is screaming at himself not to go To Not leave his boy, The boy who was brought into this world by him and was now being left behind. Last to cry was my big brother. As he went into the embrace, I remember thinking to myself how dead his flower must be as he never waters it. For after all a flower cannot grow without water Even if that water is the tears of two breaking brothers and a leaving father. My father then held us as we all wept, My brothers and me, My dad and my mum. We Wept for the past and the future, For us and for them For the flowers that can’t be watered And for the flowers that are dead.