Calcified bones from spent lives
etched in stone above and around you.
You lie with others
unable to hear
or meet these words on any page.
It's cold even though you won't feel it.
Part of me wants to introduce the
others with whom you lay
to somehow warm that place
with blankets of sunlight.
That would make me feel better about you being there
since you have to be there.
Another area of my mind faces
an equal challenge:
Whether I should be thinking about you
as my Dad, or as a person or after 9 years,
as being gone.