You want to see your father,
my mother said, as both
a statement of fact and a question.
My brother said no, and I said yes,
after all, I’d flown over 2,000 miles
to be there, and so we waited
outside a gray door
until we were allowed to enter
a larger room than I had imagined
and walked toward a transport trolley
where my father’s refrigerated body
was lying, still and silent,
under a sheet that had been folded
down to his chest, his left arm stiff
in an unnatural position,
his body unprepared for the viewing,
that would happen at a memorial
service. He was to be cremated
and there was no need. You
want to touch him, my mother
said as both a statement of fact
and a question, as she touched
his cheek and I did touch
the top of his head, which I
described later to my brother
as having the sensation
of putting my hand on cold
lunch meat formed over
a bowling ball, which was
exactly the image that came
to mind as I touched his bald
spot. He’s been gone now
for half my life, and when I
think of him today, I don’t
think of that moment
in the way I described it
to my brother. I think of a man,
who came home after WWII
with a war bride and a son,
a man of his generation,
who was the epitome
of the strong silent type.
And I do recall now,
that standing in that room
with my father laid on the trolley,
that it was the deadly silence
that I felt the most.
Terry Allen is an emeritus professor of Theatre Arts at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, where he taught acting, directing and playwriting. He is the author of the chapbook Monsters in the Rain and three full-length poetry collections: Art Work, Waiting on the Last Train, and Rubber Time. His poems have appeared in many journals, including I-70 Review, Third Wednesday, and Popshot Quarterly. In addition, his work has been nominated for an Eric Hoffer Book Award, a Best of the Net Award, and a Pushcart Prize. His books are available at Amazon, Kelsay Books.