The Funeral

There is no one who knows a father’s knee
better than a child who wraps his arms
around that knee and clings to it like death.

He lets go, puts his ear to my kneecap,
begins tapping on it for a through exam.

The flexibility of young children amazes me.
He sits on the stairs and draws his knee
toward his ear, begins tapping on it carefully.

“You know they won’t sound alike,” I say
smiling “because we’re not actually related.” 

The moment I make this stupid joke,
I realize he’s too young for to catch it.

A child’s eyes can produce an expression
that cannot be matched by older people.

His eyes water with consternation and wonder.

“But you’re my godfather,” he says.  I
smile, touch his head reassuringly, and say,
“And that means we’ll have the same wings
someday when we meet up in heaven.”

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