Dad’s Rosary

I’m knocked sideways too soon

My funeral coat has been stolen

Out of my Volvo sedan

That waited out on Divisidero Street.

I’m not sure why the burglar broke in

San Francisco can be that way.

Maybe I can wear

My black leather motorcycle jacket to dad’s funeral.

Dad is gone. No one will care.

So with a new black turtleneck

Making up for the smaller loss

I begin to make my way to the farm.

My plan’s set.

I won’t be attending Dad’s rosary mass.

I’ll go to his funeral mass.

Then I’ll leave, skipping the wake

Calling my spirit back the whole time.

After a long drive through hawk-scatted hills,

I arrive at the farm.

As I walk up the wooden porch stairs

Towards a house as old as dad,

The first wave hits.

The settling of my family’s history

Upon my shoulders.

My need to control is washed away.

I’m oarless on a skiff in a storm.

Now navigating Dali-like waves.

I turn the golden doorknob

On the door that leads to the kitchen.

The door dad slammed so many times.

It opens. I see my aunt and step-uncle.

He sits on the sofa struggling to breathe.

She stands next to him

An oxygen mask in hand

Slipping it over his mouth and nose

I hear Dali’s voice…

“You have to go to the rosary for them”