Monday, October 25, 2010

Probate Trial


When the trial is done
my father’s ashes will be blown

past memory. The days riding shotgun
under blue then foggy then crystalline skies

done. Finally. And I never

wanted it that way. Always sought
mi Papí allí en la camioneta waiting for me

to get in. And we’d drive.

When I was little, we knitted time
into smiles riding around town

on the tarry seats of a pick-up.
Then I got curious and asked

questions. The most important: whom
had he loved? He didn’t answer

that he loved me.

That would have been out of character.

He was not a liar. Besides he knew
what I really wanted.

I wanted to know about all the women.

My mother who was not his wife;
his wife who was not my mother.

And the others. He answered
that he hadn’t loved any of them.

Without excuses. Without regrets.

I wasn’t part of that story. I was his daughter.

I was pretty. Then I grew up smart.

And sad. And then away. But never
too far. Soon a judge will rule

and my father will simply be

what remains

for one more moment. Then done.