I went to our father. I went with our mother.
Our father cannot move, cannot speak.
The only expression of his pain I detected
In his eyes, an incessant twitch in his facial skin, the sound
Of the tube in his mouth, too much pain, too much air,
Too much destruction, what he created, destroyed,
Lost, the tube is too small to take in that bereavement.
I put my hand on his skin and listened and watched
And stood there, my parents, then and there, united
In creation and destruction, united in pain,
His eyes told me everything, he tried to write more,
He wanted your cremation stone, and from the fires around you
Into my hands, I held you, the number, the last companion,
And put the stone in its box onto our father’s desk
And put his hand on it, to feel you, there, with him, maybe,
One piece of his son, from the outside world, a realm dissolved,
And I gave him two photographs that suggested peace and hope,
One where an expression of love was visible, I wanted
Love to be dominant.
No more ego theatrics, the circle needs to close,
Wherever you are, transcendent, radiant, father and son,
He wants to be close to you, he wants to be with you,
Be a father to his son, now that there are no more words,
But a tree and purple clouds.
Croque-Melpomene 