Piano played with pounding passion
The floorboards vibrating as I lay tucked in bed to sleep.
But how could I? How could I?
When I was hanging on every note.
His laughter that captivated an audience,
With blue gray eyes that sparked with mirth,
Ever a full wine glass in hand.
Living grand like that piano.
A character of Dickens;
Tweed jacket and bow tie,
A costume for the performance of his life.
He, the conductor.
He, the music maker.
He, the director directing all of us as a family.
Quiet world within opera arias and crossword puzzles.
Silliness and seriousness, numinous in his faith
All his many moods laid out
Like his ever burning fires.
His children stacking the wood
To keep it aflame.
Dancing with him I was a princess,
I was beautiful and precious, a thing to behold,
Like a ladybug resting upon a leaf,
I am that. I am Buggy.
I know him by heart, as best a daughter could
Or can, and does no more.
Eulogy, summation of all of it
Wrapped in a few thin words that strain to mean
What is felt, and known, and remembered, and shines through
Like sun playing on the river ebbing out, sailing on.
A great blue heron marks the place
Where we all once stood.
I’m holding your hand there
So it’s okay, daddy, you can let go now.