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I passed through the courtyard of life and boarded a plane, the voice on the phone not one I knew. Father, how different you sound. The better to die with, my son. I sat in first class alone, heading home from the funeral, thinking of the growl in his voice, the weakness in his throat. He beat my mother but he never dropped the cigarette from his lips. The seat belt light flashed off and I stood to piss. The long walk down the aisle, past the crying child. Father, what weakness, what tears you have. The better to ask forgiveness with, son. I can't forgive you yet. I know, but I have more tears to weep and more stories to tell. The child shrieked, reached out to grab my pant before its mother snatched his hand back, the knowing smile shared by parents. My father's eyes shown beneath his shaggy black hair what he drank. He called out RED in all cap letters and I would come head down to face my shame. Father, what anger you have lost. The easier to lose with my son. The window in his room opened out over the highway with a forest on both sides. A path through the forest that leads here. Leads to death. His breathing becomes one with the engine hum and I am lulled too near to sleep. Father, how old you are. The better to lie here and wait, my son. He eyes were glassy, forehead bathed in sweat. The cup of water with the straw and the constant smell of bleach and urine. The path through the woods to my father's bed side. Father, how tired you seem. It is time to die now, son. But I haven't forgiven you. I never asked you to. The path through the woods to first class seats. My father's funeral was short and sweet. He never called because he couldn't speak. The path through the forest to death.