When they played taps on the bugle, I cried.
Just a little, a tear traced my cheek,
for the man who was my father.

A man who fought jungle fires in Panama,
and tenderly held his newborn son.
The man who taught me to ride a bike.

A man who loved his wife and family,
and showed it by the things he did.
A good man who lived a good life.

He resolved to live a better way
than his parents who were poor,
and did not always do the right thing.

He left a lot of himself behind,
in the memories of those who knew him.
It will take a long time for that to fade.

When I buried my father, I buried
some of myself, for what I am
came from him, and my mother.

And I will carry that with me, always.