by CD Williams

“For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil” (Hamlet 3.1.66-67)

Last night I was cleaning up after supper and I was wondering—

Seven years before I was born my father’s father died at 57 from
tuberculous;
My mother’s father, my Pa whose name I carry, at 64 of cancer;
And my dad? My dad at 69 in the driveway, snowblower running on high throttle.

I know sons bury their fathers—I hadn’t seen it a pattern of life in good
order—
And learned fathers sometimes bury their children—I never understood
that curse until I faced it.

Last night I was cleaning up after supper and I was wondering—
What’s the purpose—my purpose—living more years than these who’ve
gone before?
Is my work in the world just not yet finished?
Maybe a challenge, a chance to try, to accomplish more—
Or a gift perhaps, a chance to laugh, to cry more.

I’m coming to understand there is neither gift nor challenge nor curse.
I carry sorrow without, as I’ve been told to feel, gratitude,
I carry sorrow without, as I’ve been told to seek, closure.
I carry sorrow beyond days of grief.
In that sorrow I carry memories.
And I endure. For now —

Eventually the mortal coil will slip from my shoulders—
The shroud, inevitable — I expect no grace in its dark folds.
Will the dreams that come include a reunion of souls or quiet, empty
nothing?

Last night I was cleaning up after supper and I was wondering and
I looked down in the dishwater and saw my father’s hands.
Surprised
I looked up and, reflected in the window over the sink, his eyes.

And that is, I suppose, enough.