My daughter was the first to call —
the only one to call.
Wasn’t going to answer any other call.
They probably knew that —
the boys —
they probably knew that I wasn’t in the mood for a
hey dad
or a feeble
are you okay.
Fifty-three years is a long time
and there can be no satisfactory answer to are you okay —
not after fifty-three years.
No one’s okay —
not after
fifty-three years.
They’d dig and probe
like little girls but,
the girl,
she knows better.
She’s gone, dad. She’s gone.
That’s all I needed to hear.
All I needed to be told as I stared out into the ravine
forced to contemplate the beyond.
Steam whistled out of the kettle.
Brazilian beans resting in the pot
unaware of a brewing plot.
She got me that pot.
Bought it for my thirtieth.
Gift enough at thirty.
Seems like just yesterday
that a night in the town,
shots in bars,
dancing in filthy clubs,
and sex in parks was gift enough.
Fifty-three years is a long time.
The girl is just like her mother —
a tongue way too sharp for her own good.
I often imagined a time
when a man could strike a woman
then realize
she’d be the first
to get struck.
A father shouldn’t think such things but…
she was the first to call.
Her mother used to say that she and I
got too passionate,
too inconsiderate,
fated for heartache
but
she knew me better than most.
She’s got too much of you in her,
the wife would say —
say it like its a bad thing.
I don’t know.
Maybe it is.
Could be why,
after fifty-three years,
she left a hole.
I don’t blame her.
Fifty-three years is a long time.
She’s gone now.
A few months ago, I had a plan.
A plan to get back the love of my life.
I knew it —
knew she was the love of a life
cause I started to miss —
miss the things
that drove me up a wall;
stomping of feet,
dreams of Greece,
grinding of teeth in her sleep.
All those little things…
gone
and soon as they were gone,
I was on my knees
praying that God would bring them back me.
Mom’s moved on, the boys would say,
you’d better get yourself out there.
When did men start talking like that?
When did it become possible to move on —
move on from fifty-three years
of the same hands,
of the same lips,
of the same eyes?
I wasn’t going to try.
That was a plan —
not to try.
Time is the enemy.
Should have not tried
harder…
She’s gone now, dad
ringing onward as the water comes to a boil.
Flood the beans with tears.
Flood ‘em with raging rivers.
When we were younger,
I’d often say,
I wanna I die before you.
Don’t think I have the strength
to live without you.
Guess I was right
and so,
God has given me a chance
to grow that strength.
Growing pains.
Growing pains.
Growing in pain.
She was a barista when I met her.
Served coffee to yuppies in Yodoyabashi.
Told me that
once a day
a suit would wink and say,
hey pretty,
how ‘bout a coffee date?
I used to wonder if she ever went.
Jealous of men I’d never met
putting a smile on her face.
And she’d say
I love seeing your writhe in pain
envious of a past
that’s died away.
Well,
I’m crying over a past
that’s dead
a love alive
only in memory
only in picture frames.
Divorced but still in charge…
In charge of the corpse,
in charge of the morgue,
in charge of the calls.
I should have said no.
Shouldn’t have signed no damn papers,
shouldn’t have let her walk out that door.
Maybe —
maybe she’d still be here
still alive
still bored of this life.
Or better still
dead
but by my side
so I could cry
not by coffee,
picture frames,
or memories
but by the love of a life.