The Last Time I Saw My Father

by Joan Mazza

I was visiting my mother in New York. I flew north
from Florida once a month because she was dying.
It was a sweltering July. 1987. My father said I couldn’t
stay with them this time, but my ex-brother-in-law’s
Aunt Josie welcomed me. Within walking distance.

I saw my mother while my father was out. Retired,
no friends, where did he go all day? My mother
and I went to lunch, came home to nap together
in her bed, where my father no longer slept.
He’d moved into my childhood room.

He grumped and groused at my presence in a house
that was over ninety degrees, refused to consider
air-conditioning, would not help Mother with meal prep
or cleanup. What was he thinking? Perhaps he’d already
made his plan. A month later, I returned, late night flight,

as soon as I could after Mother’s call. He’d shot himself
in the head. A taxi from the airport ended with my climb
up the Brooklyn stairs to a distant cousin’s whisper
in my ear. Your father is dead. At his closed coffin,
only his estranged sister wept. Where did he go?