there might be cake, my apple pieces are not, and never seem to be, of...

my apple pieces are not, and never seem to be, of uniform size, which, I believe, Mrs Zametkin (seventh grade home ec) would have insisted they be.

nonetheless, at mom’s, making applesauce, box of himself’s clothes, his mother’s vacuum and god knows what on VHS delivered to the Sally Ann.

Alexander’s and Gabby’s sticker books delivered; Amy surprises me with a bottle of cava, and fish ( not a surprise )

plow scraping noises outside. quiet, else.

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another place to consider whether or not in fact there might

about

before we buried my father's ashes, his wife told us that we might want to bury something along with the wooden box. people appeared to be considering this seriously.

hmm, I thought. hmm.

on the back of one of my business cards i wrote there might be cake.

on the one hand, this is ludicrous. i don’t even know how much my father liked cake. i don’t think he had a belief in an afterlife, and yet it seemed important, just in case. to send him off with a note of something hopeful. a good maybe.

now, months later, he's still dead and I still wonder.

[avatar image: Mike Monteiro]