My other Father passed away
some seven years ago.
You’d think I’d come to grips
with all that’s past and all that’s passed.
We offer consolation to our
selves by saying things,
like, “He lived his life well!”
or “Yes, he made his peace with God.”
But something catches in my throat,
and more than that is trapped
in portions of my self-
assurance all of this is well?
I tell you when the songs he loved
Come on the radio, I smile.
But when people whom he
loved, who sang the treasured tune,
make passes of their own,
the swift eclipse of minutes stings.
No, Death may not be proud, I know,
and bells toll all the time,
yet knowing isn’t quite the same
as losing things to hold.