I long to smell my dad again,
a freshly lit match,
faint sulphur and burn
and new cigarette smoke.
We never had the chance
to say goodbye.
I hear his gleeful, high
Heee Heeeeee! and rush
of shout-talking,
while he sits with one ankle
propped up on the other knee
and twirls the curl
on his forehead
with his fingers.
His hair had turned
from dark brown
to mostly gray.
I see him
leaning forward
from the waist,
striding
toward the stadium
with a baseball program
sticking halfway out
of his back pocket.
He scored each inning
with a pencil stub
on the scorecard
against his knee,
while cracking peanuts from their shells and
jiggling them around in his palm
before siphoning them into his mouth
and muttering about the radio
announcers’ remarks that he listened
to through one earphone.
Meanwhile he reached way back underneath his seat
periodically for his plastic cup of beer.
If only he could
tie the shoes of
my girls.
Shake my
husband’s hand.
Call me on the
phone.
We met for a beer once
and laughed about the time
we got lost on a backpacking
trip. We had to hitch a ride back
to our car with a man and woman in
their van. As it turns out, they
were arguing about whether
or not they should pick us up.
She was against it, apparently.
In the days after his death,
I went out to the garage
and I buried my face
in his dark green
fleece jacket,
breathing deeply,
all my senses
seeking his essence.
And lo,
a fat baby bird
landed by the open
garage door and
hopped
close to me,
chirping,
whistling,
delicately
inquiring,
assuring,
up and down,
head cocked,
a whole conversation.
It was my dad,
speaking comfort
to me.
