Tell Us How You Lost Your Father

A few tales depend on yours,
On how your growing past ends,
On how and when. A moment

Held, early in hospice, late
In the summer of dying
Off-schedule, past remission,

When dying felt almost good
Since it was promised, it was coming.
Better had it been later,

Much later, but consoling
Somehow in its certainty
Or near certainty. Six months,

That was the oncologist’s
Cliche-bordering promise,
The proverbial six months.

It’s been three months now. You don’t
Feel you’re dying, just lousy.
You’ve rushed to prep and relax.

Now it seems like there’s so much
Living before the dying,
Living you’ve got to get through,

Almost none of which will be
Spent perched beside a woodstove,
Watching bright flames flickering,

Sweetly playing chess with Death.
You’re well past ready to go,
Except a few tales depend

On yours, on how your growing
Mountain of past will balance.
For those few tales, you’re living.