Dad said some days were better than others.
On those days he’d see her walking
into the bedroom with his folded clothes
or a dust cloth in her hand.
He’d smell bread baking
or coffee brewing in the kitchen.
Just a glimpse or a whiff.
Once, he said, when he drove uptown
for the mail, he fell asleep, slumped
behind the wheel.
He woke to rapping on his window.
“Jerry, wake up. You’re late. It’s time!”
She looked right at him, he said.
Looked right at him.
And then she was gone.
At Dad’s funeral, Ken tells us about his dream.
He and Dad are sitting in a bar having a drink.
And Mom walks in.
She tells Dad it’s time to come home.
And he walks out the door.
That’s it. That’s the dream, he says.
We return to our lives.
On better days, we still hear him singing.
Today is the first day of National Poetry a month. My goal is to write a poem or to share a poem I love every day. He-he-he. Tally-ho!