November Stripped #2

He’s attempting to breathe solace

Into his new born daughter’s fist

As she paws defiantly against her Father’s whiskers.

In time she will learn to submit to these good-bye kisses

And to feed off his absence.

At twenty-two she will slave over a perfect cup of coffee

And at twenty-three she’ll kick the habit for the baby.

Swearing to the knotted ball in her gut

“I promise, I won’t be like my Father.”

Though he’ll be sitting in the waiting room all the same.

She was taught to pay attention to detail,

The hole they buried him in was exactly

Three inches longer than his actual height.

She heard the hitch in ‘Heaven’

And counted twenty-eight tears on the poor Widow’s cheek.

This was not her Mother.

This was the fluke in her Father’s life

And when he tripped

He fell too hard.

Ten years and two divorces.

Child care and burnt tire coffee

Filled to the brim of Exxon On-The-Go mugs.

She has the children this weekend

But Dad already took them to the Zoo.

She started hitching her skirt up two inches higher last Summer

And bought another coffee maker.

Winter filed her spine down to a twig

And the coffee turned to luke warm tea.

The children finished college

Just in time to attend their father’s funeral in the Spring.

There is a cat always sleeping in the corner of her room

It only has a name when the children come to visit.

And yet it stays with her all the same.

She was buried in the same plot as her Father

With ripples of white flowers dripping into her grave.

Two younger generations circled the headstone,

And they discussed their Mother’s life in hushed voices

Leaning close to the ears turned toward them.

They paused as the Priest spoke of better places

Where she’ll be waiting all the same.