I remember hearing my father's voice

      from beyond the grave.

      No dream—a single, scratchy vinyl

      had captured his characteristic

      lilting, homiletic style,

      that seemed,

       in and of itself,

       to be the message—

       no surprises there,

       nor flights,

       yet a resonance

       that touched

       and stays with me

...

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Player piano in the empty funeral parlor foyer cranks

out old standards with a Dixieland flourish. The old

wooden cross. How great thou art. Take my hand precious

Lord. No one hears it. No one is here to discuss pre-planning.

No one peruses coffins for his aunt who has been sick so long

the family forgot she would die. No one is scooped out

by grief at the accidental death o...

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