Picture Frames
The sounds of my father follow from the TV room
as I move through numbers punched by numb fingers
Mom Uncle Lee's Dead
Dad's Not Taking It Too Well
Come Home
Sitting a couch as he answers the phone
the rings still echo like churchbells
again and again
he mumbles "he was my best friend"
and hangs up
Fingers tremble
I approach the hall
the phone
stability
In a chair
I lean into its straight back
With no support
my mind slides
head compresses
everything isn't happening
when I go out for air
I sit and watch
a camera recording
shut down
Mother appears to comfort him
They hold each other and moan
I sit and watch
They process past the coffin
detached
unknowing
Everyone's here
laughing
remembering the good times
Funeral details
"You know it won't be like when Grandpop died
We'll be the guests . . . "
Years go by
I'm not drying my hair
Water drips onto pen and pad
at the edge of my desk
writing a man loved as Father
The coffin sits at the cemetery surrounded by flowers
I look back and see you
standing there waving and smiling
and laughing like Santa Claus himself
giving me one last gift