At the Funeral

It was Father’s Day weekend.

I sat in the cold room
pushing buttons,
turning knobs,

sending a dead man’s life
through wires
into the dark.

Voices spoke of his children,
his family,
the blood that knew him
and answered back.

Outside, cards were being bought.
Restaurants filled.
Fathers were being called,
remembered,
forgiven,
endured.

And I thought:
am I still a father
if no one says the word
back to me?

Or was it all a dream,

the small hands,
the fevered nights,
the birthdays,
the money sent,
the kite lifting
over the beach,

all of it passing
through me now
like a broadcast
with no receiver?

I thought of my own words,
spoken once
into that long silence,

how they must have traveled,
if they traveled at all,

whether they struck anything,
whether they entered
even briefly

the hearts of those
who have learned
not to see me,

the living father
standing there,

invisible.