I Imagine My Father’s Death

I imagine my father’s death. It is bigger than a breadbox. It is bigger than a Ford Escort, than a Zeppelin, black and vast and slow moving, oozing over an Oklahoma arena. It is bigger than any arena, than Oklahoma. My father’s death is bigger than a planet, bigger than the gravity wells worlds make, that stars stir up after implosion. It is bigger than all the stars. It takes up all space, all dimension, all that is or ever was. It hates everything it isn’t. It makes new space, new matter from all it is. My father’s death takes on form and void and says, “Let there be light.” And there is light. It says, “Let there be worlds.” And there are worlds. It says, “Let there be a garden and a man in it.” And there is a man. The man is my father. He looks around, marveling at this thing his death has made, then sets out to find someone, anyone, with whom to share it.