My Father Died at Seventy-Four

My Father Died at Seventy-Four

and my mother buried him at the Waynesville cemetery in a double plot with a pair of tombstones, one for him and an unmarked slab waiting for her, and my father became a crow in the red maple behind the house in Hazelwood, and my mother lived another thirty years and waited for the day when she would lay down again with my old man. And sometimes my father would call her and sometimes she would pack a picnic lunch and sit outside sharing a pb & j and a slice of Dad’s favorite cherry pie. And often, she would be scolded with a caw from the telephone line running to the back of the kitchen. And she didn’t mind when my father stole the seeds for the smaller birds she kept in the bird-feeder hanging from the maple all winter long. And finally, when she was ninety-four, she fell unloading groceries from her car and hit her head on the concrete floor of her kitchen. After a few months in the hospital, she decided it was time to relocate, so she became a crow and joined my father in the red maple behind the house in Hazelwood, and her name became etched on the other stone in the double plot in the cemetery down in Waynesville.

Bob McAfee is a retired software consultant who lives with his wife near Boston.

He has written eight books of poetry, mostly on Love, Aging, and the Natural World.

For the last several years he has hosted a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop.

His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poetry.