Graduating

I met you at your hotel that morning, you were effervescent, copper-brown twill beaming in the light. Hovering, I fret at my dress and makeup, it’s my first public appearance as a woman and you, deft-with-compliments, assure me with bristled kiss. I kept close to you before the ceremony, enjoying our newly altered connection, let you revel in your role: Proud father of a graduating daughter. As I walked across the stage, I looked back to see if I could catch you from the crowd, but you were lost in shadow behind all the stage lights.

After we’d said our goodbyes, we bumped into each other again, outside the station. We said our second farewells mirthfully, another parting hug, snatched from chance and fate, and parted ways again, looking forward to our holiday next month. “We’ll see you again in a month or so” It felt different, more grown-up somehow. I missed you by just a week in the end, and would not see you alive again. I have you outside the station, warm orange in evening light, which was not so, and hold you longer than I would have. I cannot remember without inventing.

To your funeral, I went in suit, and set aside my last filial duties, laying down manhood with your coffin, on the dais.