I hung my father’s photograph on the wall
above his notepad, signet ring,
stethoscope, ten shaving brushes.
That was my stratagem for grief.
The items glistened in the evening sun
before the stars came out,
and I drank my nightly Chardonnay.
Next to me is his yad.
He was not a religious man.
Nor was he an optimistic one.
Though his favorite novel was utopian.
Some look to the meteors and shooting stars
for those they’ve lost.
I thought I saw him once
on the Western coast
of Costa Rica.
And he said, Forgive everyone,
including yourself.
It was a wild place still.
This poem originally appeared in the Baltimore Review.