Visitation

I don’t know what happens when the afterlife
you planned never arrives. I think about it
when I wake at 3 am for no reason, left talking
to your ghost sometimes. A nightingale, still
singing, joins in. You arrive, hair burning
white the way sun through the stained glass
of Bethel caught it. I, aware I’m putting
words in your mouth, imagine you like
the reminder of music. This morning,
the songs grew louder; April brought
an unseasonable dusting of snow and I’d
left the air conditioner running. ‘It’s Texas,’
I explained to your ghost, grabbing one
of your old afghans from the foot of the bed,
and standing at the window. It’s a three-
quarter moon and the light’s coming off
the ground. I turn back and you’ve moved
to the rocking chair that’s been with us
a century. Your smile combined with your
translucent body rocking, gives the appearance
of chuckling. I can hear it in the moments
before the world wakes, still laughing at some
momentary panic I now realize has turned
out fine the way you said it would.
A few more minutes,’ I ask as a car door
slams, an engine starts and you
drift like heat through a too-thin wall.