A Letter to My Father

Dear Daddy,

Today you would have been sixty-five. This morning
I drove to church - sang Tallis's "Lamentations"
and thought about lighting a candle in your name
but I didn't want to talk about you, don't want to be consoled
for this awkward sorrow that cannot be smoothed
into a tender summary. Were you still alive,
you'd still be giving me hell
for never keeping my mouth shut.

Ten days ago, your older sister
treated me to lunch: steamed fish, savory eggplant.
A special order -- as we cleaned our plates,
her friend the owner said in Taiwanese
"she's pretty" -- about me. It hurts
how much such throwaway gifts matter,
and how you would still be underimpressed
with my minor poems, my shortage of status --
it can't be helped anymore than the fact
all your wanting to stay alive couldn't save you.
You would have liked the eggplant and the fish --
especially the eyes. My aunt reminded me of that.
And what the owner said? You would have observed
it's sort of thing men have to say about nieces.
But you would have been pleased that I still remember
enough of your language to thank him for it.

- pld, 9 April 2006