May My Memories Make you Whole

With a great sigh I ask, “What do I put on my father’s altar?” Even now, as the gates begin to close, as the partition between my world and yours is as thin as gauze. A bandage we didn’t get to place. Your absence a gash to be tended to with copal and marigolds and offerings. Ofrendas that I gather with urgency as the gates begin to close.

That this year, your first year gone, may the gathering of my memories make you whole. The fascia on your calf, the heavy folds of skin under your eyes, the deep timbre of your voice and the weight of your embrace. I try to conjure you with the things you liked, Ry Cooder and chocolate and Lagavulin. The act of recalling you take these things in, close your eyes briefly, smack your lips and say, “mm that’s good.” May my memories make you whole as the gates begin to close.

May they make you whole this year before, I fear, you become legend. Once the tombstone is placed, and you transcend fully into the pantheon of stars. When we make you a saint, perfect, and loving, and majestic. But now, now in this thin place, I can conjure your imperfections, your ire, our battles, the creases on your brow, the sloppiness of your gait. Now, may my memories make you whole.

Can I conjure you? Conjure you from the parts of you imprinted on me? From my toes you surely kissed when I was little, to the taste of blood in my mouth from loose teeth you pulled with bare hands. Can I conjure you with the sound of my guitar? The wisp of smoke from my pipe? Will you come visit? Will you leave some earthly vestige of your visit? I seek you in my dreams and call you on the phone. May my memory make you whole as the gates begin to close.