The Simplest Things

Here’s another poem about my Dad from this summer, written in early July.

The Simplest Things

It’s been nearly eight months
but the simplest things can still set me off,


like dumping out Suzie’s Spicy Brown Mustard,
which I took out of your fridge after you died
and kept as long as possible
(even long after it expired)
just because I didn’t want to let any piece of you go—


anything that smelled like lunch with you, Dad,
like you visiting,
like you smiling at me from across the table,
and it being the best day ever
because you were there.