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MIT
Poetry
Identifying
My Father
John Hildebidle
I'd hoped cremation would avoid this.
"But we wouldn't want a mixup
with the ashes," he said. At least
no Muzak,
and he wasn't an unctuous hand-rubber
in a too-black suit. The chairs were
just shy of comfortable, magazines
(all
about travel) were strewn on low tables:
the look of a Holiday Inn lobby.
A hallway. A room with three caskets. The guy
was polite, serious: "The
one on the right."
We walked over, my mother and I, anything
but at ease. The head slowly came
into view
over the wooden edge: a head full of white hair,
a narrow, bony face, and
. . . a beard?
I'd expected a vast, sad change, but could this
be my brown-haired, portly,
smooth-cheeked father?
The guy saw puzzlement in our eyes, looked down
at the false-leather folder
he carried. "Oh,
Lord, " he said -- not loud, but you could hear
the shame in his voice. "It's
next door."
Even more hesitant now, we followed, looked,
stood, signed papers, while
the boss babbled apologies.
Nearly the last thing Dad said to me was,
"That's another story." Tale-lover,
always working
the crowd, he'd have dined out on this one for months,
What I miss most
about him, almost,
is his deft way with a punchline.
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