My Father Holds the Door for Yoko Ono

In New York City for a conference on weed control, leaving the hotel in a cluster of horticulturalists, he alone stops, midwestern, crewcut, narrow blue tie, cufflinks, wingtips, holds the door for the Asian woman in a miniskirt and thigh high white leather boots. She nods slightly, a sad and beautiful gesture. Neither smile, as if performing a timeless ritual, as if anticipating the loss of a son or a lover. Years later, Christmas, inexplicably he dons my mother’s auburn wig, my brother’s wire-rimmed glasses, and strikes a pose clowning with my second hand acoustic guitar. He is transformed, a working class hero and a door whispers shut, like cherry blossoms falling.