My father’s third visit after his death
Was his whole house
With all the furniture gone
And the floor crunching with dead beetles at every step
Like a long uncleaned garage
All of it greyed with dust
I wandered the place-  what remained
Down the unlit hall and to my old room
Where the closet was closed.
(Where every weekend when I came home,
he’d always hid some small gift for me)
I opened it to find it freshly washed
Utterly pristine and occupied
by a single dress on a hanger
Which was not for me
but for the room’s occupant in the waking world
The visit ended into the rainy front yard
where he stood blurred
As always unspeaking
But I knew
the gracious final gift he’d left
This is not ours now. it was, though