When we say goodbye,

my waving hand trembles, but --


father doesn't notice.

My father narrates,

the speaker is off, I film --


deep inside his mind.

It's like a Hopper

painting, sitting on a bench --


next to my father.

I sat down by my father's grave (who is not dead yet),
and my mother's (who died 3 years ago),
and my aunt (who died two years ago-- alone),
and my great-grandparents (who died before I knew them).
I sat down with dry eyes by these graves all in a row
and contemplated the cold, impermanence of life.

My father maintains the graves.
He festoons them with colorful flowers for Memorial Day.
I think, how cliche to ornament with
silk flowers in a fake urn
on a lonesome line of graves.
But, moving the wire-cored foliage I see a singular
peacock feather hidden among the sanguine flowers
and realize this is the essence of my father
and that understanding
dampens my cheeks.

O, it is definite.
I submit to your summit,
And linger there indefinitely.

Like my father did,
O, so perfectly lulled;
took the pill

His mother nursed him with,
To forget his father, he who
Met his grace

Earlier than the stripling of your years.
O, how he reset your communion,
Traced your strength asunder-

Compacted you into diamonds;
Your violence mined them with duds.
Recall me now, you recalled me then-

Never now, do you see me,
Without yourself as him.
Him for his failings.

I am your mirror to you,
The roses you gave me
Have been rotting since 1962.

O father, I just wanted you to be true
But you took your dead father,
And gave me him too.

Dear Dad,

I relive your death every day.

Your sincerely,
Miss Daughter.

In the kitchen of fate, where recipes align,
There's a daughter of misfortune, a tale so intertwined.
Her father, luck's favored, with fortune at his side,
But she's taken her mother's grace as her guide.

Her mother, a tempest in life's stormy sea,
Taught her strength in adversity, resilience to be.
Though luck eluded her, in her eyes, you'd find,
A sparkle of hope, a spirit unconfined.

In the cauldron of challenges, the daughter found her way,
With a pinch of her mother's spirit, she'd never sway.
She stirred in compassion, a generous measure,
Adding empathy and kindness, her greatest treasure.

From her father, she borrowed a dash of good fortune,
But she knew in her heart, it wouldn't be her cartoon.
She'd blend it with care, mix it with her might,
For her mother's tenacity, she'd always fight.

In the oven of life, she baked her own path,
With ingredients gathered from love's aftermath.
A pinch of her father's luck, a dash of her mother's grace,
She crafted her essence, her unique embrace.

And as she emerged, a creation divine,
A daughter of misfortune, in her, stars brightly shine.
She carried her legacy, a blend so pure,
A recipe of resilience, forever endure.