His outline still shimmers, my father’s,
On the right-hand cushion of the crewel-stitched loveseat.
My Furniture, still the same—curtains—
Even the Dalmatian that lay on the floor by his feet
Dozes today in the same spot.
I came downstairs early on the last day of his visit
Because dad was always up and shaved by five o’clock.
He sat on the loveseat, white hair combed neatly,
Leaning forward, elbows on his knees,
Drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette—
Comfortable in his usual morning outfit
Of tee-shirt and sweats, unzipped
Jacket jauntily open. (How proud he was
When I started working at Penn State and sent him
For Christmas the blue and white sweat suit
He wore as if he were an undergrad!)
On that last day, he had rolled soft pant legs
Up to his knee, as he often did at home—
I saw immediately the black of his legs—
Such a startling black—stood there, saying,
“Good morning, Dad,” remembering
When one of my students told me
Of seeing her grandmother, a lifelong smoker,
Sitting in a chair—“Sandy,” she said,
Small voice rising tremulous, “her legs were black!”
Two months later, her grandmother died.
Standing there, paralyzed, looking at
The space were my father sat, I heard
The thought beat like a metronome—
“This is August…August…August…”
In October, the phone rang.