STILL TALKING TO HIS SHADOW
In the hospital morgue, they gave me
a black trash bag with his clothes and valuables.
I threw out his wide tie and underwear.
He’d been in a coma for weeks.
When I visited, he looked
at me without seeing his son.
I was a shadow talking
to a shadow ― making up his responses
to complete the conversation.
He wondered if I would be okay
without him. I wasn’t sure.
My shadow still talks with him.
When my mother died years before, I was excited
by the new beginning. But when he passed,
I realized I still needed my past.
In Calvary, grave stones hyphen the rolling
hills of former farms interspersed by mausoleums
with surnames in large letters.
As a child, I was intrigued by the polished limos
with extra back seats and the overly
pressed black suits on the undertakers.
Today the cemetery is divided by an expressway.
I threw soil on his coffin as it was lowered into the earth.
It is still peaceful even with the hum of traffic.