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.