He stood in front of the headstone
marking his father’s grave
under a maple tree
that shaded the parcel
reserved for his mother.
“I found that twenty
you sent me,” he whispered,
“found it in the leaves
next to the curb during my run
the day after
we moved you here.
I asked for a sign
and you dropped a twenty on me.
I knew it was yours,
all the serial numbers
matched your birth and departure dates,
never mind the letters, all T, S, & K.
Money is what drove you,
but when I asked for something,
you usually answered,
wasn’t sure about this time,
considering the circumstances.“
He concluded the one-sided conversation,
hoping quietly for another sign,
but all that followed
was an eerie silence,
one that encompassed all the gravestones
and the rows of dead they marked.
He kneeled, got closer to the granite slab,
pressed an ear against it
as if to block the deafening hush
that enveloped his surroundings.
Still nothing, cemetery silence,
the most disarming silence of all,
so silent, he could hear the still air breathe.
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