The door squeals in resistance

on its metal track

as I slide it open.

The new navy blue suit,

the one he jokingly said

he’d be buried in,

it’s not there,

he’s being buried in it,

and I’m here searching

for his eyeglasses

because he doesn’t look

like himself in the casket

without them.

I’ve not seen inside this closet

for a long time, if ever,

but Death brings home the prodigal.

There is his tweed jacket.

his everyday work coat,

and there is his cache

of Hawaiian ties, circa 1930s,

garish still, a tattooist’s inspiration.

There’s a shelf with a box

of family pictures, and another

with papers important to him,

including a message from me

recalling childhood memories

of his return from work,

how I’d waited for him,

ran to the door as he turned the knob,

and buried my face in the blackness

of his heavy winter coat,

its cold exterior cloaking the warmth inside.

The coat was worn, discarded,

but this man, to the world wary of emotion,

had clung to the note,

just as his son’s wallet

remained home to his father’s response.

Finally, I spot the glasses

with a pile of hospital belongings,

and as I pick them up I notice tear stains,

caused by the heart attack, no doubt,

but he had died with my mother at home sick

and me five hundred miles away at work,

and I stop and wonder

whether that was the source of the tears

as he lie dying alone,

but no time for reflection,

the funeral will be about to begin,

so I grab the spectacles

and when I close the door

it squeals in resistance once more.