The Last We Spoke

The last we spoke, I apologized

for mixing-up the date of his dinner.

He understood, mentioned next time:

a platitude, a half-believed article of faith.

I was a day late. It would have been the last I saw him.

A dinner party olive-branch—a tentative start,

first gesture to begin to mend the relationship;

more than monthly texts about sports and fishing.

But then his heart quit. The roommate found him

in the morning, hands folded in his rocking chair.

I was left with a collection: disorganized

regrets, his knap-sack, and fishing hat.

Codes and memories to be deciphered and filed.

Impossible task, trimming and adjusting a thread:

a baby with square block and circular hole;

furrowed frustration, piecing together cluttered details—

a story to carry  travel-sized meaning.

But the story is unfinished. My dad died

alone in the chair he lulled me in

when I was an infant.

My dad died in that chair, believing

I was ashamed. Now I’m left