Eulogy

Letter on Another Occasion

Sea Fever

Christmas Eve, the forecast was seventy-nine
and sunny, no hope for snow, and your daughter
and I were driving in from Miami,
instead of across town to a childhood
filled with different traditions. Near water,

in a rented apartment, we hatched
a memory narrow as the kitchen
that required perfect choreography
to fit three cooks, each assigned duties
so that when the day finally gave in

we could sit at what might pass as the same table
as any other year. In those tight quarters,
we diced and nipped. Good cooking, you explained,
was passion, practice. The secret to the sauce

was the temperature of the butter
before I set in the whisk. We were older
and you were sick; on another occasion
there would not have been any leftovers,
but in the morning, I brought you eggs
with béarnaise, angels on toast. On the bed,

you shared a letter that asked for your hand
in marriage, though I think you would have run off
anyway. On the bed, we heard about
your absent brothers. Today, I am afraid
I don't remember who exactly was there.

So for these purposes, I've decided, we all were.

Steve Kistulentz