I loved to shuffle
in your slippers red plaid
broken down at the heels
for when your car turned
into the driveway
I’d balance backwards
down six steps, and leave them
pointed, ready, warmed for you.
……
The night you fell
beside the hospital bed
unnoticed to the floor
I did not feel your falling
I only heard the phone
later in the dead of night
I stood, a stone
your kitchen cenotaph
Father, you are remembered.
……
The first Spring you missed
in eighty years
the rain drenched me.
The sidewalks puddled in cherry blossoms
haloes round street lamps
what celebration this pink confetti
swirling.
Father.
Every bus stop
every old man standing
stung my eyes.
You loved the Spring always
walking the gardens
among budding trees.
Father.
……
November’s leaden cold
marble monuments built to glory.
We pile our dead
history weighing the ground.
Story by story stone upon stone
we stand in silence, bowing our heads.
……
This now is this day
and today I sit, with memories
loose thoughts walking through my brain.
I sit, and leaves brush against windows
in their falling.
I feel the pulse of life in this house
moving in hushed reminders around me.
Today is the day old men and women weep
and remember.
This is designated sorrow time and I long
to see my father’s bony feet, and offer
for the first time, to hold them in my hands
and rub them into warmth for all they’re worth.
Father.
……
But we can never have the same
and try it differently, but never mind.
We’re all forgiven. We’re all forgiven.
Tonight I bring these words to you
my offerings paper monuments
before which I stand.
I say I say Stand up.
These are my monuments
I say stand up. Stand up.
What are yours?
…for you Dad.