On the Anniversary of His Death

/ /

I remember my father. I’m standing at my window, watching him pass through my reflection and beyond it. Autumn. Time for sowing, as he clears the debris off the garden bed and adds in a layer of compost, then sends his gloved hands into a sack to scatter the seeds: wild cabbage, black-eyed Susan. When he walks, I know his slow motion gait, stooped over, then kneeling down to inspect the soil where only a few dubious marigolds still raise their clustered heads. My face against the cold glass, I see him turn to wave, as if to say he’s finished here although the harsh light of the sun strikes the window with such a glare he cannot see me waving back.