Rain
Suanne Fetherolf


Outside, the rain wraps black branches
like white wet gauze
while I sit in a puddle of lamplight

writing  my father’s obituary.    
He  lived long and easy , still dreaming    
                of a ranch in the foothills
                horses for the grandchildren
still dreaming
long after the rugs had been removed
                so he wouldn’t break a hip.

He smelled of Vitalis  
                and Old Spice
wore a striped tie
every day but Saturday, always
                smiling his white-grinned blue-
                eyed smile.  At Christmastime,
he’d bring home a tree,
                hide it in the garage for a surprise. 
He could make his biceps bounce
in time to music to amuse us
                or whisk his belt off in fury
like a whip.  He was a force         
                that mellowed with time 
                like winter softening into spring.

But an obituary is naked facts:                  
                date       place      survived by— 
flat as a hospital bed.

How can I say    how can I tell you
                he was  the wild sky cracking thunder
                the rain lashing down     
                               the roof that kept us dry--

About the author:
Suanne Fetherolf lives in New Jersey where she earned her M.A. at Drew University.  She teaches English and creative writing. Her work has appeared in such journals as Spoon River Poetry Review, The Milo Review and Isthmus.