I wander the apartment
in Dad’s Texas T-shirt.
Flick on the TV.
Off.
Microwave water for ramen.
On/off.
Keep expecting to see Dad.
It’s been almost a month now
but still
I hear him say:
Mira, ramen is not real food. It’s dorm food.
Speaking of which, we need to buy you
new sheets for college. Shower shoes.
Some days I hear him pour oil into the pan.
It sizzles.
Smell onions, carrots, peppers.
I hear him cough,
hear his footsteps,
hear him cry at Hallmark commercials.
Other days, I hear him make dinner conversation.
He asks what I’ll be for Halloween this year.
I tell him I don’t know yet.
He laughs.
Says:
This year, for Halloween, Miranda?
I’m going as myself.
I tell him April and I saw Forrest Gump
four times in one week.
That he would have loved it,
how Forrest runs and runs
across America.
How Jenny dies at home
with her family.
He says:
Sounds like our kind of movie.
I tell him I’ve been teaching Mom to cook,
about my college roommate assignment.
I tell him that April has taken up running in the park.
That Mom took us to the studio, made me a
mobile, told us about Wabi-Sabi:
And that maybe,
just like art,
we are something made, not perfect.
I tell him that I miss him.
That I will learn to play chess, take a road trip someday.
Then, one day, the house is quiet.
I hear the front door open and
I hear him say goodbye.