Notes for my Father

it's been a month, or four weeks, or 678 hours.

i'm sorting my words, memories, piles of laundry

like laid out l e tt e rs in scrabble.

a dear dead dad makes for a peculiar puzzle.

March 15th.

4:27 p.m.

just yesterday?

just a moment ago?

the doctor pronounced you dead at 4:40,

but your wife and children wore a different watch.

the tick-tock of our clock waited for your last breath

in. out.

in.

no exit.

life is marked with our eyes, ears, and heart

not a stethoscope.

gas is up to $3.88,

which is almost forty cents more than a month ago.

i'm just giving you an idea of how much can change in a month.

you asked too many times if i was heading to California,

and i kept the truth tucked tight in my bra.

(i wonder if you're an angel and can see what else i tucked.)

do you see it wasn't me,

but the ocean,

who changed her mind.

love is a wet hurricane, dad.

some days i wish i could hold on like you.

arms wrapped around one tree,

whipped naked by the wind, by the rain,

smiling.

the night before you died i studied your hand

holding mom's hand holding your hand.

i held on

to my chest

and prayed it wouldn't burst.

at 4:40 p.m. you were still warm.