The Blue Urn

The Blue Urn

A picture taken at my grandmother’s
house sat in front of a blue urn. He had
a great, wonderful smile. I sit in the
pew thinking, “How will I ever look in the
mirror again?” His image haunts me, just like
the blue urn that is his final resting
place. They found him in a pool of his own
blood. He fell forward and broke his nose,
after a massive heart attack. He survived
long enough to bleed to death. Blue, the color
of blood without oxygen to change it
to the color red. Blue, the color of
the mood at my father’s funeral. Blue, the
color of his gargantuan urn. For years
it sits in my aunt’s living room beside
my grandmother’s urn. Already haunted by
his face, which I have—I possess, when I visit,
I’m haunted by him, his presence—I can
not sleep peacefully in the house. When I
look in the mirror, I see him. When I sleep, I
see him—Permanently, I am haunted—
haunted by his face, by his blue urn, and
his last letter that ended with Vaya Con
Dios. Go with God, Daddy. Please, go with God.