Best to Leave No Evidence Behind
I’m starting to understand
why Hindus gather on ghats
to set their corpses on fire—
sacred waters of the Ganges
washing away the ashes.
The morticians got my father
wrong, my stepmom sobbing
over the shape of my father’s
mouth—the cavity stuffed
with cotton, lips stretched
too wide from side to side
and painted, making him look
like the Joker. I wonder who
that is lying in state and what
roles we get to play today—
citizens of an unnamed
kingdom gathering around
for a last hurrah, my stepmom
asking in Mandarin: can I
touch him? I had gotten there
an hour before they said
he’d be ready. I wanted
some time alone, some space
to feel whatever it was I was
going to feel, goddamn it if
she were going to cockblock me
one last time. I was counting
the days since my dad had left
his body, wondering how long
the Bardo would have him
before dispatching our little
general bedecked with medals
back into another form—human
or not. She puts her hand
on top of his in the same place
I had put mine own before
she came—the tiny pride
I took in having gotten there
first, unzipping the case
that held his Bible all marked
in red, sundry passages
I’d never have to hear him
read again as I snooped
around last things—a drawing
made by a granddaughter, a card
their own son had signed, made.
An hour before, the mortician
joked that he too had had
an awful stepmom who sold off
the family business to
a corporation so she could
cash in with no regard
for her four leftover stepsons
all trained in the fine art
of embalming their own father.
My own dad having shrunk
three suit sizes, nothing
really fit, my stepmom
bitching about how much
a brand-new suit would cost
that she’d just as soon spend
on herself though at first
it sounded like a good idea
when his corpse was still warm
to the touch. What was left
of my father’s gray hair
had hairspray on it, the yellowed
skin on his skull and face
remarkably supple for
a nonagenerian—still looked
like my dad if one refused
to look head on. I felt mixed
about all those chemicals
they used to pickle him
but was glad he didn’t stink
when I pressed my lips against
his forehead when no one
was looking, even snapped
a selfie which actually
made me burst out crying—
final photo op both staged
and not, I grabbed a pen
and scribbled in my daddy’s
Bible, crossed out any mention
of my namesake Timothy—
“my true son in the faith!”
before my stepmom arrived
on the scene, the karmic
traces of everything I’d done
sealed inside a casket closing.
***
Author photo courtesy of author
