Departures

It’s the third anniversary of my

father’s death. I sometimes dream, like one

too long neglected by a familiar

correspondent, that he’ll write, or even come

home soon from his trip. As though nothing much

had passed, take his place in the big rocker,

work his Sunday crossword, do the Reader’s

Digest, lay his glasses down to lift a

grandchild to his lap, talk with me about

Pete Rose or Dick Nixon like he did the night

before he died. He’d be older.

Three years ago I said goodbye to him,

finally though not knowing so. “Hope you

feel better,” my godspeed. Then he left. He

took with him a part of my mother’s

life and a piece of mine. Where the tissue

tore is still quick.

I know that my own journey’s the only

way I might regain him. But my

particular parting will be hard too

for I’ll have to slip out leaving others

anchored home. Leave them wounded I suppose

and wishing their own father had stayed

to talk longer.

—kevin h. siepel