Some share how their mother returned
as a red cardinal or a butterfly on a difficult
day. I imagine my mother tucked in a picture
book heaven, a place that was more real to her
than earth, having no inclination to leave. She
was not one for symbolism anyway, and besides,
we keep up. Just because she died doesn’t mean
I’ve stopped arguing with her.

A few winters ago, my husband and I stood
at the entrance of a park outside a hospital.
We were stalling, soon to head inside for an
appointment where test results could change
our lives in so many ways. People rushed
by us in both directions and I envied their urgent
passage when I saw someone walking slowly
towards us. My father, six years dead,
his rolling gait, his suffer-no-fools expression.

It couldn’t be but there he was, the white hair,
the hat cocked just so, the dark suit. I turned
to my husband and realized that he saw
him, too. We waited, wordless and stunned,
as he approached until, just steps away, his gaze
shifted and he turned, and his profile was
that of someone else. We stared after him,
and at each other, and walked into the hospital
filled with wonder instead of fear.