The first time my father visited me
after his death
He knocked on the front door.
I remember walking down the stairs the house was empty
and lit storm orange
I opened it to see him
no shock or fear I was just overwhelmed
With the feeling of wanting a gallon and having a thimble
That was this time with him
He couldn’t speak
He stared out at me and I could see the wanting of words
I had questions
“Are you in heaven?” Straining ice blue eyes
“Are you somewhere bad? Nothing
A tight little military nod, As if with great effort.
We stared at each other then and wept in love too wide to speak.
This was the end of the dream
Which sounds a like a bad dream,
unless you’ve had it