there might be cake, between one thing and my mother, I stop home,...

between one thing and my mother, I stop home, change clothes, sit down, drink some tea.
clem remains steadfast, guarding the kitchen
not guarding, not presiding
but there
he is there
he is present at the kitchen table

I’m visiting my life

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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]