I saw my Dad’s hand in the coffin
behind the preacher’s podium
shielding the rest of his face.
Thank God!
Should I say his hand looked
like it was just asleep?
I hid behind the podium—
a little girl too shy to emerge
from behind her mother;
a little girl who wanted
to snuggle herself in Dad’s arm
like they used to in Dad’s rocking chair.
A woman who curved her memories
down the chapel aisle and outside
without a look behind,
with only Dad’s hand a memory.
