Objects and Fathers

Pictures snapped at sun-
Bright moments, your old
Fuzzy sweater with its
Faded yellows, the music
Box that sang your small
Heartaches away, shoe
With broken heel, doll
With arm missing – I’m
Building some kind of chapel,
A place to remember you by,
To body forth from
A set of random objects –
Almost nothing – something alive.
It is here I will gaze up at you,
Wherever you are, half-
Praying the picture with your
Lovely grin, the shoes that
Like my hands have cupped
Your feet, the doll whose hair
You braided
In my tantalized presence,
Will return you to me
In whatever kind of reincarnation.
I know none of these things
Can bring just that kind of miracle,
But it is myself I have faith in,
My need for you I trust
To see these objects
Work their god-like magic.
For isn’t that what love is
All about? Letting
The grieving heart see
A gleam in objects that cannot
Now or ever smile or glow
Or sing again, then
Letting these objects
Take all credit for their
Gleaming, happy enough
That we have love, happy
In the pure bright act of believing.