Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.
Guy de Maupassant
WHERE THE DEAD DWELL
My father’s voice and intonation,
his mannerisms, watchful glance,
you tell me in our conversation,
are mine, with subtle adaptation.
That same proud bearing in my stance
was his demeanor, you remark.
Reflecting thus, together we
ignite a bright, defiant spark
to lighten that enfolding dark
where the dead dwell reluctantly.