A collection of obituaries
was the first thing I saw in the classroom.
Someone had brought it in
as part of an assignment, I don’t remember.
Each obituary had been highlighted
cataloguing the oddest manners of demise.
An 83 year-old Russian woman
choked by her dog’s leash while he tried to run
for help highlighted in yellow.

A local college student‘s heart attack
after receiving his passing MCAT scores
highlighted in pink. I suppose people feel alive
knowing that these things happen
that death’s ironic crooked finger looms.
I remember wondering who kept the morbid mosaic
and wanting to sit far from them, trying
not to think of my father who is still alive.

I remembered the day he died. He told me
after my older brother and younger sister.
I couldn’t be mad watching my father fight back tears.

Shock doesn’t describe the first time you see
your father cry, but shame is a powerful force
that can draw tears from the most prideful
eyes. My father never had hobbies. Never
cared much for sports, neither watching
nor playing. His father shook hands
because he was a watchmaker and people
knew him, so my father learned a man
is measured by the job he has and hands he shakes.

He learned to be loyal and honest and unemployed
when he stayed aboard a sinking ship
for too many years. I watched my father die and walk
away from me as I stood at the foot
of the basement steps trying to reassure his words
that everything would be all right. I remember
thinking about how heavy his footsteps were
and wondering what color would be used
to highlight them.