17 and 53

You were 17 the year your father died.
 And he was 53.
 When you were 17.
 In the museum where you laid your head to sleep,
 The artifacts were cold to comfort you.
 When you heard them fighting,
 You hid in the apple tree.
 The branches broke their noise.
 And when your brother studied at the university,
 You were left all alone to realize
 That while you were growing older
 He was busy growing older too.
 ...
 And in the summer when your father drove you to the river
 And he would sing so loud.
 Soon to be kept silent
 As you climbed through barbed-wire fences,
 To get to the riverside
 And while you were growing older
 He was busy growing older, too.
 ...
 And in February, you were running late one day.
 And out the door you ran.
 Leaving left unsaid the things you'd soon regret not telling.
 Never knowing, this would be
 Your last chance.
 And while you were growing older,
 He was busy growing older, too.
 Was it fair to blame the girl?
 Was it fair to make the child choose?
 And when you stood next to the mountain,
 did you swear you could hear him calling you?
 ...
 I am 22 and you are 53 and only blood can tell
 That we are made up of strings and strands of DNA
 Dancing waltzes in our cells.
 And while you are growing older,
 I am busy growing older, too.