Measure of a Man

Imagine
putting a spoon
into your Father.
Once
I couldn't imagine
putting a knife in him,
let alone a spoon.
But the spoon went in
without a struggle
(Well, without a struggle
from him,
though it may have been
for me).

You see,
I was trying to be
Precise.
This wasn't salt
or flour
or soil;
If spilled,
it wouldn't be okay
to just make a swipe,
fingers curled,
with the dry side of my hand
and dust
that Dust
into the sink,
or onto the cold floor.

I searched the drawer
and found a tiny spoon.
Silver.
Once,
I had used it to slip pears
between the lips
of my baby daughter
(When she was still
My Baby Daughter).
Closing the drawer,
I was a long way from There -
could not have been
further from There.
But the job
was no less important.

I dipped the spoon
gently
into the field of grey,
pale and pitted like the Moon.
I used it to cradle
just
the smallest amount.
And then
(as carefully as I have done Anything)
I tipped it,
that Fraction of Remains,
into an open,
empty
Heart of Gold:
the locket
I had bought
for my father's ashes.