A year ago my father died. No need
to sympathize—we were not close, and yet
I cried that night. It seems his death would lead
me on a walk through mists of time, beget-
ting fractured feelings like some unborn child
emerging from my past. I did not see
the perilous pathways to be reconciled.
My father saw. He's gone ahead of me;
he's making sure the road is safe ahead
while I'm distracted by this childish play.
I've learned the road is what it is, and dead
ahead awaits the light of darker day.
The doctor tells my sister of her choice;
She hears the calling of my father's voice.