The Beginning

I’m sad I couldn’t be there when they laid you to rest 
next to the wife you loved with such fierce devotion. 

But I’m reminded 
that those ashes aren’t you, 
just the dust that comes from leaving. 
And despite the pretty churchyard, 
this is not the rest you went to. 

I’m glad that while you were here I wrote you letters 
and thanked you for being the father mine couldn’t be. 
Neither of us could do it in person, 
uncomfortable as we were with talking about the divorce. 
But I’m rebuked by all this dwelling on your death, 
and I remember instead those moments that bring you back: 

Swirling dust motes in your workshop 
while the crickets screamed, 
sneaking jam drops, 
counting the fish in the pond but losing track. 
When I am but dust, we will have our reunion. 
When we are all but dust, 
we will have our reunion.