turning heads

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
go insane
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
a creation
not frightening but still instilling fear.

How insanely playful
he was
How thoroughly stubburn
from beginning to
solid end
never willing to admit
he might not
make it.

such simple complexity
filling every space of my heart,
my life
and now...
there is just too much
nothing
every time I turn
around.