Your number is still in my favorites.
(So is Mom's.) This morning
I touched the screen by accident
and for an instant I dialed you.
I hung up quick as I could, before
the recorded voice could tell me
this number is no longer in service.
(As though I could forget.)
Opened my email instead, and
there in my inbox: a photo of you
and me, and my son (maybe five?)
at the zoo. To see you again
happy with your grandson...!
Maybe the tap of my iphone screen
came from the other side. It's been
three months, you're learning how
to place a call from there.
Good morning, Dad. I'm doing okay.
So good to hear your voice.
I had a heart attack just like you.
(I've been saying I wanted to be
more like you were in later life.
This wasn't what I had in mind.)
But I'm going to be fine. Last time
you were here we talked about
someday expanding my tiny mirpesset:
I did that this year. I like to think
you sit with me out there sometimes,
when you're not playing backgammon
with Phillip again, or taking Mom
to parties overflowing with champagne
where the band never stops.
If this speaks to you, you might also find resonance in Crossing the Sea, the book of poems that arose out of my first year of mourning my mom.