Back to Issue Fifty-Seven

After my three hellos go unanswered
and I hear plate clatter and cutlery chimes
while a waiter catalogues the specials
of a restaurant somewhere in Pittsburgh,
I know I’m in my father’s blazer, nestled
near his heart, where he keeps his phone,
and see him at the table with my mother,
ear angled toward the server, his Depression
era palate unimpressed if not dismayed
by the mention of truffle aioli,
microgreens, and butternut squash risotto
but at least this time withholding his opinion
so my mother can select her champagne
in peace and then ask for more time

to decide her entree. The server gone,
they resume the conversation that preceded me—
that is, that preceded my listening,
which I resume as well, not catching much
of what they say but knowing somehow
from their tones that they are happy tonight
in their far-off presence, so much so
it feels almost as though I’m eavesdropping
on the afterlife I’d imagine for them
as they eat bread, surrounded by good light
and a soundtrack of general pleasure,
the living world and its sadness reduced
all the way down to a small tremor
in a small voice that says it loves them.