The Dark.

The Dark.

I want to not leave him there
at the end of the first night’s viewing,
realizing as I tell my brother this
how ridiculous I must sound and
nodding in compliance
when he says that’s not our father anymore,
but when I drive out of the funeral home parking lot
and see the last light go off inside,
plunging the place into darkness,
my breath sticks in my throat
remembering how Dad lit the night light
in the hallway outside his bedroom
every single night this past year
since my mother died.


Photo by Giles Norman.

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Writer and Poet

Tricia McCallum profile

Tricia McCallum

Always be a poet. Even in prose.
Charles Baudelaire.

In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]

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