Commemoration

Because we had not yet reached the point
Where I could say, "I love you,"
And hear you say it back –
You punched my fat biceps
Gave me your sly half smile
Or merely walked away –
We had not fought
To reach a father-son accommodation
The way I did when I was nearly thirty-five,
And my dad was sixty-six or so.

I shall screw your name and dates
On a gold leaf plate
To your cherry wood urn
This some soon time and mutter prayers
Now that you’ve been dead a year.
Commemoration, but not reconciliation.

The voids between the words
Scream different things to me:
Not adult, but in the making;
Not cremains, but ashes;
Not lost, but dead;
And especially, Eternally Nineteen.

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© WDMoser. Printed with permission. No part of this poem may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without written permission from the author.