My Father’s Closet

I slide open the door,
it squeals in resistance 
on its metal track.
The new navy blue suit,
the one he jokingly said 
he would be buried in,
is not there.
He is being buried in it
within the hour,
and I am searching for his eyeglasses.
He doesn’t look like himself 
in the open casket without them.
I haven’t been inside this closet for years.
Death brings home the prodigal.
There is the budget tweed jacket,
part of his chosen uniform
before he retired,
and there yet is his cache of Hawaiian ties,
circa 1930s, garish still,
a tattoo artist’s inspiration.
On a shelf there are family pictures 
and a box containing papers,
including a note from me years ago,
recalling from childhood 
how I awaited his return from work,
ran to him as he opened the door,
and buried myself in his heavy black winter coat,
its cold exterior cloaking his warmth inside it.
The coat outlived its use years ago,
but this man, chary of showing emotion,
has kept the note, just as his son,
equally inhibited in emotional display,
still has in his wallet his father’s grateful reply.
Finally on the shelf are the glasses,
and as I pick them up I notice they are tear stained.
The heart attack that took him
caused him to vomit, a likely cause of the tears.
But he died alone, me 500 miles away,
and I stop and wonder about the source
of those final tears.
It’s getting late, so I grab the glasses
and close the closet door,
which again gives a squeal of resistance.