She didn’t say her father died or
her dad died. She said my daddy died.
That word revealed to me all I needed
to know in that moment about a grown
woman weeping like a child lost in the dark.
She then told me she’d asked for a sign
as she stood still by his graveside, some
hint to indicate he was okay, which I
guessed meant he’d crossed over safely
to heaven or somewhere thereabouts. In
the wake of her plea a streetlamp shuddered.
At first fearful, she swore if it happened
again then all was well with her daddy.
The light stirred once more, as if on cue,
and in the retelling her tears fell no longer.
We live in a world thin as a tea bag, where
assurances steep through if we, like children,
are foolish and bold enough to simply ask.