9-25-15
Dad, everything I see these days seems to remind me of you.
I guess it’s just because at this time last year you
were still alive and I was in Spain wasting what days
I had left on rules and seduction.
Or maybe it’s because I’m spending all this time now
watching your grand-daughter grow up. I wish
I could tell you again and again about how she’s
learning to say my name—you know the one
you picked out for me forty eight years ago.
And though
I can think of you when I want to I still scroll through
saved messages on my phone hoping to hear
your voice out loud once more. I don’t know why
anyone would ever do that. Suppose I could
see you like you were before, I’m thinking you’d
probably seem too distracted—as if you can’t
quite grasp what to say to me and I have
to make my plane or waste a lot of money—
whose sadness were you telling me about? Whose death?
Yours or mine.
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