Writing on the Wall

Canada Fry

The Father in the photos was removed
Ma had erased him,
though he never was rubbed out of me,
my young life; on the swing, in the chicken pen,
or seeking treasure in the dirt, my father
from a distant sky, when did you die?

Did you ever think ‘my precious girl, Dad’s jewel’?

Was it in the snow, a winter night,
the car just would not start?
Your heart irregular at best, seized?
Locked  memories in a vice;
the wife, the kids, the jobs the cars
suspended all, inside a shock of ice,

a frozen shield of absence in your eyes.
Who knows what you felt
or who found you or how long?
You’d maybe lain a month until the melt.

That last breath solid in your nostril hair,
a final image with the sharp intake of air,
of hurt or bliss, a child’s touch, a kiss?

A face with yellow curls, the baby girl
you’d flung up high ‘your chubby putti’
framed by the cerulean blue of northern sky.

I cannot know what comfort stole the thought.
I’d have liked it to be me.
I missed you Dad, you see.