The Novelty Of A Ball

As a thirteen year old boy,
war was cruel, sad, and gray.
There was no place to escape,
there were dreadful, piercing, loud sounds.
There was gratitude to be alive.
A ball made out of rags,
such a novelty in that place.
The stench of death always looming.
That boy grew up to survive,
the camp, the war, the sadness.
That boy was my dear father,
not only he survived the war,
but his spirit always soared high.
He lived his life with gratitude.
Growing up he was my hero,
he taught me through his example.
To fight for what I believe,
to live on my own terms.
To be kind and help others,
to seek truth and live fully.
His life read like a novel,
his legacy continues through our life.