I’m sad I couldn’t be there when they laid you to rest 
next to the wife you loved with such fierce devotion. 

But I’m reminded 
that those ashes aren’t you, 
just the dust [bad word] from leaving. 
And despite the pretty churchyard, 
this is not the rest you went to. 

I’m glad that while you were here I wrote you letters 
and thanked you for being the father mine couldn’t be. 
Neither of us could do it in person,  [bad word] as we were with talking about the divorce. 
But I’m rebuked by all this dwelling on your death, 
and I remember instead those moments that bring you back: 

Swirling dust motes in your workshop 
while the crickets screamed, 
sneaking jam drops, 
counting the fish in the pond but losing track. 
When I am but dust, we will have our reunion. 
When we are all but dust, 
we will have our reunion.