Questions

I know him through burnt brown stains

on off-white films of sepia tinted photographs,

vicariously through his son, now my father.

now when I sit to read, with my legs crossed,

the right one over the left, toes curled outward,

I wonder if I've taken after him; how his fingers

must've divided the pages of his books after

wetting its corners. maybe he, in his stolid

indifference, could answer my questions —

why do we not get to choose when we arrive

but when we leave? can you really miss

somebody who always resides in your mind?

what is it like to be present? how can I be sure

of it? would he know though, if I asked him, if

our timing was bad? was I plain unlucky to not

have had a chance to see him? or did he have

to leave only so he could arrive again but

this time, with me?

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