talking with seniors about
the genius of Huxley and Orwell,
chatting with the staff over bag lunches about
last night’s game, checking my emails,
showing a team of boys how to run a
better out-of-bounds play, and driving home
through a northern Michigan winter wonderland
that I learned Dad had “taken a turn for the worse”
while the rest of my day unfolded as if
nothing had changed.
It was after
the quick trip to the store before scrambling
the quick trip to the store before scrambling
to visit my fading father that I walked into a kitchen
where my family had also turned worse, immobilized by
the whisper from the telephone announcing that
everything had changed.
It was after
his funeral that we drove to his grave,
his funeral that we drove to his grave,
achingly numb, tossing red dirt into a six-foot abyss,
doing everything - anything - with him for the last
time,
retreating to church for the strength of faith and family,
facing nothing and everything alone.
Now everything is after.
- on the 11th anniversary of my father’s death.
