today on the way to work,
Cecilia asked me if Daddy transformed. I asked her what that meant.
She said "...or did we just bury him?"
I told her we cremated him, burned his body and turned it to ashes. She asked
if that meant even his feet.
I told her "yes, even his feet" and I saw his feet,
slightly crooked toes that struggled so hard to point
while diving: "ugly feet".
I clipped his toenails right before he went to hospice,
put lotion on his dry, cold feet.
He loved it.
She asked, "Even his head?"
I fought to not
for the moment
and said "yes, even his head".
His head that they had to cut into,
his head that swelled and filled with fluid
his head with the dent
his head with the staples, my husband the Frankenstein
gentle, sewed together
not frightening but still instilling fear.
How insanely playful
How thoroughly stubburn
from beginning to
never willing to admit
he might not
such simple complexity
filling every space of my heart,
there is just too much
every time I turn