Resurrection

I sort through my father’s closet
afterward,
his meager wardrobe,
he’d worn the same jacket for
as long as I could remember.
Wing-tips, shined daily,
fifty years old.
He stares from atop the bureau,
smiling, cradling infant me in his arms,
both of us framed in silver, and
I see myself in the mirror, the
spitting image of him.
The photograph seems
oddly, then, me with me.

I put on his Sunday suit, step into
his shoes, and go
down to greet the mourners.
My sister, in the kitchen,
drops her wine glass
when she sees me. I circulate
through the rooms, among
his old friends and relatives,
shaking hands,
Thank you, thank you for coming.


Mary Ellen Seidel
5/20/2002

Published: Nerve Cowboy 2002