I am almost as old as my dad was when he died.
How young does that make him?
It doesn’t matter – he’s still dead.

The river that swallowed him still flows
under the bridge he jumped from.
The bridge still stands,

tall and lacy, black and rigid
as the rules he could not face.
In church, my husband plays Dutch Bingo,

finds all the connections between himself
and the people he meets. One of them said,
“Your wife doesn’t belong to anyone.”

He didn’t mean to be mean but –
Orphanhood is a mean existence and
it means everything to an orphan.

I have to mean
something to someone,
even if they’re dead.