All of it

Wood 8A funeral home near St. Paul, MN, just east, in a small town over the Wisconsin border.  My friend, cremated, his remains in a two-toned wooden box, something that just as well could hold jewelry or collected stamps.  One of his sons–there are four children, the boys are in the middle, ages six and four–stops playing for a bit with the other children at the wake and goes to his mother, now widowed, and asks a question he’s asked before in the previous couple days since his father’s death.

“Where’s Dad?” continue reading…

In this house

House 8In this house, two weeks ago, there were the living.  There was mail read here, once.  Laundry, folded.  Sink stains.  There were signs of a place being lived in, inhabited with people planning the next day, commenting on the dark night in a new moon, lazily delaying snow shoveling.

I saw the people who lived inside this house, outside of this house.  I saw these people park.  I saw these people strum guitars in their head, I saw them scratch their legs, I saw them smell the flood water on their street, moving up their driveway. continue reading…