Walker Evans, Highway Corner, Reedsville, West Virginia, 1935
Gelatin silver print
10 x 8 1/8”
Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program
I call a caterer in another time zone
for platters of whitefish and sliced
tomatoes, fruit salad, forks. How many
the stranger named Eddie says. Don’t know I tell him,
curious who will show for my father’s
funeral. With my ear to the phone from my home
eight states away, I hear Eddie breathe. He asks When
do you need it? The restaurant behind him hums
and clinks. Those sounds wake me up, make me
glad. What a nice luncheon it will be.
Not sure, I tell Eddie. It’s all
up to my dad. Perhaps the distant edge
is right next to me. Eddie has an accent. His voice
is soothing with smoke at the ends
of his sentences. Don’t worry anything he says.
It’s as if he can steady the world I’m suddenly in.
We discuss bread: how much? dark or light? It is casual
business. I hang up and Facetime my dad,
who has been dressed in a bright
orange shirt. He leans against a pillow,
same place he’s been for many days. His eyes are open
but the hospice nurse says he can’t see. His eyes, brown
for all his life, have turned gray, blue, other silent
colors. Is he permeable? Nothing moves. He is afraid
of death. The mourning doves fumble
outside my window. It is spring. They sing their dubious
defenses. I wish he could still talk to me. Say all
his nothings and donut choices. The stillness
grows loud. I get off the phone and recite the simplest
prayer of future: don’t worry anything.
Every day, I see my dad clenching, his hand a fist.
His hand holds everything I am.