Death is not the final word. <br />Without ears, my father still listens, <br />still shrugs his shoulders <br />whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer. <br /> <br /> <br />I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob, <br />my hip leaning against the frame and ask him <br />what does he think about the war in Iraq <br />and how does he feel about his oldest daughter <br />getting married to a man she met on the Internet. <br /> <br /> <br />Without eyes, my father still looks around. <br />He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I <br />have grown less passive with his passing, <br />understands my need for answers only he can provide. <br /> <br /> <br />I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing <br />his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.<br /><br />Lisa Zaran<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/talking-to-my-father-whose-ashes-sit-in-a-closet/
