My father died in Autumn,
while the last leaves shivered free,
so when I looked outside
it was beautiful.
He passed beneath the same sky
that I watch every evening,
in the city where I live
and never called him.
The obstacles were real and necessary,
like loyalty and hurt and shame,
which means my grief is
assumed to be small and containable.
I have a painting he composed on canvas board,
it’s too big for our apartment,
and I trip over it most days
but I know how to love him now.