Dad, I was going to text you this morning something,
something I wanted to tell you. But then I remembered
you’re not here any longer, and my great sadness stirred.
Its two months today that we saw your face through our
phones and you were all thumbs up we’re gonna give this
intubation a go and not an hour later my phone rang and
your youngest son told me in heaves Dad’s gone, John.
Something in me broke that moment, and Life’s wild wind
I’ve always loved is now bitter cold and I can’t get warm.
To try and get a better signal we drove across the highway
to a Love’s travel stop parking lot and there, walking out
of the front door was you—same hat, same denim shirt,
same suspenders holding up same baggy jeans, and same
large hands with veins visible from a distance. I said Look,
and we both couldn’t find our breath. I grabbed my phone
and snapped a picture of you walking in front of the Chester’s
Chicken sign and the ice box where bags that day were $2.49.
That wasn’t what I was going to tell you this morning but I
hadn’t mentioned that I saw you as you left this world, saw
you at Love’s in Clayton, New Mexico, but you didn’t see me.