An ordinary work day: only an hour commute, a Spoken Word poetry lesson, a guest appearance by the Creative Arts Team, another More Writing Monday (on a Tuesday) lesson. The meetings after work meant a Four O’Clock departure. It was already twilight by the time I arrived home.
No stop at Maryrest. No visit to the grave. No crows gathering on finally bare Maples surrounding the cemetary.
Why do I need to visit a grave to remember him, when every lawnmower ride I take memorializes him anew? He’s in my eyes, scanning the overgrown grass, and my hands, gripping the wheel.
At least, he was. This year, I felt my own sense of ownership distance me from that palpable sense of him. The recollections of his rides on the grass-stained, old Yard Machine we bought used have become blurred, almost abstract. I still hear his voice, but the fresh sense of his tone and diction fade.
Ten years to the day, and this Amentalio is what I have left of my father.
Christmas lights
if only you could
see them now
for dVerse Poets’ Tuesday Poetics (pubtended by Jade Li), where we write on entries from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. In commemoration of the 10th anniversary of my father’s death, I chose this one:
Amentalio: the sadness of realizing that you’re already forgetting sense memories of the departed- already struggling to hear their voice, picture the exact shade of their eyes, or call to mind the quirky little gestures you once knew by heart.
The pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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