I didn't expect my father —Richard Jones
to walk through the wall
at midnight when I was
sitting in the wing chair
which my mother insisted
I take after he died because
she thought a wing chair
in my study with a tall lamp
would be perfect for one
who sits up late reading
and thinking about the dead
which is what I was doing
when my father arrived and
I rose—as he’d taught me—
and offered him his chair.
photo: Sarah Jones