The Ancestors Saved You a Chair (for my father)

You escape through the envelope of dawn.
We witness light follow you
as you follow the Light,
that sparked glint of what is to come.

I see whales swimming through
an ancient dark blue.
I see you having this freedom,
to fly through space and time,
no walker or cane to hinder.
Suddenly, your mind has the quick ticking
of a clock,
the ability to remember
what slipped through cracks in synapses.
In this afterworld, you are perfectly whole and aware.
The ocean’s cycle now becomes your rhythm.
You move with grace.

We long to touch that technicolor door
you stepped through.
Try as we might, the handle will not turn yet.
I imagine you reaching, always reaching
with a reassuring hand,
while the other arm is welcomed
by dozens of souls all awaiting this reunion.

The Ancestors Saved You a Chair (for my father)

A table is set for your arrival
with place cards and cloth napkins.
August, Bill, Josephine, Ruth Ann, Bob, Sonny,
Charlie, Barbara Ann, Winnie, Keith, Doreen.
The chairs are filled.
Who will embrace you first?
That golden oval of light
that releases us to the earth
is the same home we return to.
It is our birthplace and our resting place.