My dad is buried in Ridgeland, SC,
The same place I was conceived.
It felt significant to be alive
when I turned 43.
We’ve lived more years with out him,
my sisters, brothers and me.
I got more than 19 years,
the youngers have fewer memories.
For my part, I got fishing tales,
beach days,
learning to swim frantically,
battered paperbacks from the linen closet,
pork chops from the tiny grill
he could pull his lawn chair up to.
Valentine’s cards,
a coral ring from business travels.
Rock n roll records,
’80s pop on the radio in the sedan,
nothing fancy.
My questions of politics
and philosophy answered
unsatisfactorily.
There are no pictures of him past his prime,
he wasn’t there for them.
I’ve missed him, but haven’t
wanted to chat more than I do today.
Emily J. 
Can I forward this to his siblings?
Sent from my iPhone