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WHAT YOU SAID
Before you died, you assured me this
wouldn’t be the end of the story.
“One day you’ll hear somebody say something and you’ll
think, ‘Gee, my father used to say things like that.’”
What you didn’t tell me is that three times a day
Sandy would give me a look and say simply:
“Jerry.”
I tell the dog, “You’re a terrible nosher. This has got to stop,” as
I slip him a piece of meatloaf under the table.
“Jerry.”
“Can you please turn off the lights. I don’t own the electric company.”
“Jerry.”
“I wish I could also pay $80 for a pair of jeans, Ethan, but unfortunately I am not a rich man.”
“Jerry.”
“Thank you dear!”
“Jerry.”
“Utterly fan-tastic!”
“Jerry.”
“Don’t you understand the way the world works?”
Oh, Jerry. Jerry. Jerry.
Every time I open the door to my mouth
in he walks like Elijah at Passover to
the place at the table set for him.
There’s no closing the door on this man.
He lives here.
For Dad/ April 20, 2013