Father, I saw your shadow in the hallway light,
still wearing that coat two winters too long.
You hummed war songs under your breath,
told me boys don’t cry, then wiped my eyes with your thumb.
The house is quiet now—your boots retired by the door,
but every creak in the floor answers when I call.
I keep your anger in a shoebox, your mercy in my voice;
when I sing, the walls soften like they did for you.
If heaven has a stoop, save me a step;
I’ll bring the psalms you never finished,
and we’ll trade regrets like pocket change,
two stubborn ghosts learning how to stay.