Scattering My Father's Ashes
My portion of my late father's ashes sit on top of my refridgerator. The urn is right between his laminated obituary and the bottle of Ten High whiskey that I am draining tonight. I am charged to leave handfuls of him in places that fit well with his memory. As of now I have not left any of him anywhere. I can not bare to let him go. I can press my ear to his vessel and still hear his voice. He tells me to let him go. I want to but I fail. I tell him of my guilt and he comforts me. He wants to go but he does not want to hurt me.
As in life also in death he loves me even in my weakness.
Tonight my woman was pacing and smoking. She can't wind down for sleep. There is a medication she can not afford. So, she paces the floor ashing her cigarette into every bowl, cup and plate in the apartment. Finally, without thinking, she ashes into my glass of whiskey.
I say nothing. I watch the ash break apart and slowly float to the bottom of my drink. This gives me the idea.
I go to the kitchen, take down the urn and take a pinch of my father's ashes. I drop them into my glass of whiskey and watch them spiral to the bottom.
I drink the whole thing in one burning pull. I swallow the cigarette ash and the ashes of my father in seconds. In seconds my father and I are one again.
Now I will scatter him over my whole life. I will leave him at work through my sweat. I will scatter him in every toilet I sit on. I will leave him inside my woman after sex. I will leave him in my daughter's hair after every kiss good bye.
I needed to find a place to scatter my father's ashes. Someplace I could visit to honor his life.
The place I chose was my life. It is the only place I know where his memory arebitrates the universe the way only the Gods can.
I leave his ashes as close to my bones as I can manage.
Mark Borczon is a poet from Erie, Pennsylvania. He works as a custodian at a small state university in the Pennsylvania rust belt. Borczon is the author of He Was A Good Father, Nixes Mate's press, Somebody's Book Of The Dead, Alien Buddha Press and Whatever This Is, Poet's hall Press. Borczon has 3 kids and lives in a one room apartment with Janice and their cat Nadja.
My portion of my late father's ashes sit on top of my refridgerator. The urn is right between his laminated obituary and the bottle of Ten High whiskey that I am draining tonight. I am charged to leave handfuls of him in places that fit well with his memory. As of now I have not left any of him anywhere. I can not bare to let him go. I can press my ear to his vessel and still hear his voice. He tells me to let him go. I want to but I fail. I tell him of my guilt and he comforts me. He wants to go but he does not want to hurt me.
As in life also in death he loves me even in my weakness.
Tonight my woman was pacing and smoking. She can't wind down for sleep. There is a medication she can not afford. So, she paces the floor ashing her cigarette into every bowl, cup and plate in the apartment. Finally, without thinking, she ashes into my glass of whiskey.
I say nothing. I watch the ash break apart and slowly float to the bottom of my drink. This gives me the idea.
I go to the kitchen, take down the urn and take a pinch of my father's ashes. I drop them into my glass of whiskey and watch them spiral to the bottom.
I drink the whole thing in one burning pull. I swallow the cigarette ash and the ashes of my father in seconds. In seconds my father and I are one again.
Now I will scatter him over my whole life. I will leave him at work through my sweat. I will scatter him in every toilet I sit on. I will leave him inside my woman after sex. I will leave him in my daughter's hair after every kiss good bye.
I needed to find a place to scatter my father's ashes. Someplace I could visit to honor his life.
The place I chose was my life. It is the only place I know where his memory arebitrates the universe the way only the Gods can.
I leave his ashes as close to my bones as I can manage.
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