October 17, 2015

So Close


My father died
in December darkness,
surrounded by
his broken family,
his baby-soft hands
grasping at nothing,
into the night
he disappeared.

He was rolled away
later that evening,
as if keeping
an appointment
in a dream, set up
without his knowing,
then flown to Ohio
on a one-way ticket,
baggage long ago checked
by an unseen hand,
his window seat empty
in the end.

His grave was dug
into cold earth
beneath the snow,
a small backhoe
doing all the work.
We buried him beside
my younger sister,
their names now so close
upon the stone,
having himself decided
where he would go.