Oregon

Some Months After My Father’s Death

I am watching the movie Twelve Angry Men
because there is a character in it
who reminds me of him.

He is the one who wants to go to the baseball game
instead of decide on a man’s life,
he is the weak one, the one afraid to reveal
what he really feels, the one for whom everything
is a joke. He is not Henry Fonda,
the tight-lipped moral one.

The man is despicable, his weaknesses obvious
to all, as obvious as Henry Fonda’s goodness.
I watch the movie again and again, loving
the black and white of it, soothed
by the sound of my father’s voice,
the careless pronunciation, the easy
shrugging of the shoulders at every crucial question.

I sink lower into the dark arms of the sofa.
Strange how comfortable the familiar is,
how we can even prefer it,
however terrifying.

SHERYL ST. GERMAIN