Moments after I get the call
that my father has died
peacefully
at home
four states away,
something – I don’t know what –
compels me to pull my camera from the closet
and drive to a nearby park.
I walk,
waiting, I think, for tears,
for a feeling to rise,
when the pond catches my eye:
a gentle wind rippling its surface;
two ducks slipping by,
a man helping a boy attach a worm to a fishing pole.
I am short of breath,
my eyes are dry
and I take photographs.
Every one of them
of water.
