After a Funeralthe house where death has entered is quiet is noisytoo many voicestoo many whispersaccusing not yetcomfortingthe sweet smellof wilting chrysanthemumsaccosts… what you did what you did not dohandwritten cards holdtheir studied distanceas sunlight tracks new dustacross unchanged mahoganyfrom the kitchenwhere words are not spoken,an odour of dinner turned lowand the silenceof a widowstill unsurehow to wearher new clothes His Felt Cap Between monitor and keyboard it rests lightlyon my Oxford New Thesaurus for the 1990s,wordless for all that, his felt camel-coloured cap. Some might deem it shabby yet it mustersthe shape of his head, how it crowned, tilted;I remember that he wore it jauntily, askew. Thus it sat on the head of such a man, my father — serious, worried, perfunctory, a man who gavecommands, expected results. How many timesit warmed his head, taking shape from his particularsynthesis of bone, hair and grey matter… agedin the swirl of cigarette smoke and a widower’s portion. On his seventy-fifth birthday we went to Marketbought cheese, breathed deeply past stands of dulse(quietly rememberingmy mother’s love of it)and freshly harvested seafood, swallowingthe old salt aroma of primal spawning grounds…Finally we found the soft ice cream stand. A peacock strutting, he made much of choosingfrom 24 flavours, my father who never enjoyed shoppingnow playing at it with his only daughter. A benediction borrowed from ancient cathedrals,light found his cap, settled on it, transformed it. I remember how he came alive for me that day,his felt cap drawing rays to itselfas the sun draws water. In My Imagination I imagine your room,the big window facing south,the cold brightnessof winter opening up,the bed you adjust yourselfI imagine friendsfamily and othersvisiting you,palliative care workerskeeping the backgroundThis is the roomwhere you will die,it is not homebut you are surroundedby love; I imagineyour morphined mindlooking for a balance,groggy, your mindthat was always exact,your ready witI imagine youin that homely roombecome the paradoxas you always did?—?grateful,still asking the questionsI cannot imaginea world without you,focus insteadon that window facing south,imagine you asking someoneto open it KaddishIOnce after she diedI stood at the edgeof her kitchen andshe moved me, made memove my legs to cross itone more time,then my mother was goneforever. I can still feelmy legs moving, notof their own volition. IIAfter my father died,the warmth of his handin mine, I sat beside himfor a long while, just satthere, and it was enough. Orphaned, I shookhands with the strangerI had become, and soprepared myself forthe rest of my life. IIIIn the beginning the Wordbecame flesh. Now only words remain. I imagine their soulsas I search to namethe faces of memory,to illuminethe language of my dead.