No mound of dirt was shuffled to top a grave.
There will be no tombstone, no epitaph.
No weeds to pull, lawn to mow, flowers to tend.
There will be none of these.  Only this box, this
terra-cota colored plastic box, comprised of a
sampling of him, secured by a seat belt on my
car's back seat.
It's fallen to me to transport his ashes from a city
in Ohio to one in West Virginia, my poor dad,
who's had the misfortune of dying in a hospital
two hundred miles from home.
How ironic, I think, that of all his years of living,
he never once rode in my car, yet here we are on
a road trip together.
This is not my father.  But it may as well be,
the distance looms between us just as big a gap
as it ever was, minus the polite conversation,
the awkward moments we'd always encountered
when together not knowing what to say to one
another.
As I drive I feel this need to talk to him, to tell
him what I have always wanted to tell him.
I love you Dad.  But the words won't make that
transition from head to mouth, prove themselves
no easier to say after his death than they did in life.
So I recite my poetry to him, poetry being the
only thing I have to offer, words I'd never shared
with him when he was alive.
Poems flow from my mouth as freely as the tears
which stream down my face.  I cry for my dad
but also for myself, for all the hugs never
exchanged, all the words left unsaid.
The car is eerily silent and I half-expect were I to
glance in the rearview mirrow I'd see his ghost
sitting on the back seat.  I search the sky as I drive,
praying for a sign, something to let me know he is
at peace,  But there is nothing, only blue sky dotted
with clouds, and this plastic box entrusted to me
for safe delivery.  It asks nothing of anyone, gives
nothing in return.
Shortly it will be delivered to its final destination.
Without hoopla or fanfare it will be placed on a
table set up for the ceremony.  Put there for the
sole purpose of giving him a proper mourning.