Twelve Years; Twenty Lines

It was twelve years yesterday

since my father passed away.

Light bulbs flicker off and on; I

can’t see him, but he’s not gone.

He loved the mysterious things

in life, the quiet and private jokes

with folks, the things we cannot see—

Twilight zone moments put that

twinkle in his eye—the unexplainable

is what made him smile.  He would

notice word-play and the deeper

humor in things, like The Far Side,

puns found here and there, or

humorous  acts of God, the

journalistic juxtaposition of

oddity with oddity, even a hint

of mystery.  He was open, and

he opened his heart to me. 

Light bulbs flicker off and on;

I cannot see him, but he is not gone.