photoart: ralph murre
Life
After Death
by
Peggy Trojan
My
father never gets
the
hang of being dead.
He
lived so long, so willingly,
he
never accepts his life
is
finished, done, kaput.
He
appears at family gatherings,
presence
comforting as wood smoke,
laughter
swirling through the stories.
On
trips out of town,
he
grumps in the back seat,
now
that he can’t call shotgun.
This
afternoon, there he was
at
the table by the window,
easing
his back into the sun,
looking
for a cup of coffee
and
a cinnamon roll
~
previously published in Eye on Life
Magazine
