[luis alberto urrea]
Ghost Sickness 14 By Luis Alberto Urrea
My father, dead now for interminable years, won’t leave me in peace: doesn’t want to go: I see him every day. My old man hides in trees, in water, in clouds of smoke escaping from secretary’s cigarettes. Or he enters like a thief through my window & he steals my food. He’s a live wire: he’s capable of hiding himself on the moon. & he tells me, —Son, nothing remains Nothing remains. My father, planted in his Mexican soil, laying roots into the dark meadow of forget, shines: when I turn off the lamp, his face throws sparks in the corner. When I make love, he comes running. When I step out to the street, he pursues me through the eyes of homeless children. He wears heels of gold. He smells my coffee. I see him without seeing. & he says, —Son, nothing remains. Nothing remains. My father, dead already and turned to dust, cries tears of clay. With the voice of stones he shouts, he sings his final advice: —Son, your life is one coin. Spend yourself well. For Nothing remains. Nothing remains of me.
From Ghost Sickness, Cinco Puntos Press, 1997. Reprinted by permission of the author, 2012.
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