Bad Dreams

Late at night I try to make peace with wherever my dead parents are and –

my father is driving his car forever through the Lake District and the day is crisp

and beautiful, no

my mother and him and all of us are parked in a car looking out over the sea

and we are eating hamburgers and drinking milkshakes, no

my father isn’t anywhere, he’s in every kind thing I do, every ounce of kindness he showed me

repeated into infinity, no

my mother’s in heaven, no

she’s feeding the birds in the garden in her pajamas forever, not caring

ever what anyone thinks, no

she’s in a wooden box, next to my father’s wooden box, where is the appropriate place

to keep your parent’s ashes? A cupboard is too dark, a shelf that you can see reminds you over and over, they’re dead, they’re dead, they’re dead, no

my mother and my father are waves reaching the shore, no

they’re all around us, that’s what I tell the kids, they’re always here as long as we remember them, no

they’re sleeping, no

we’re all in my father’s Triumph TR6 and he is well, and his legs work and nothing hurts, no

no, no, no,

no, no,

no.

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