Present – a poem by Anderson O’Brien

Present

The day my dad died it didn’t rain.
There was no flooding, no trees
toppled over, no violent hurricane,
no water lashing the earth.
There was just a vast void 
in my life, a chasm too difficult 
to cross. I didn’t leave the house. 

Late in the afternoon, it arrived
unexpectedly—a large, square,
flat package, there, on the porch,
from Rebecca, one of my dearest
friends I’d not seen for seven years.

When I opened it, I discovered
the portrait I’d seen her working on
all those years ago, the painting 
I had asked if I could buy.

It’s not finished yet, she said.

So I returned to my life
on the opposite coast, writing
letters to cross the distance between 
us. I forgot about the painting.

Now, on the day my father died,
October 18, 2022, it came
without expectation, without
fanfare, the painting I dearly loved: 
A woman’s serious face surrounded
by flowers, alive with color,
the colors strange and vibrant. 

And I knew it was meant for me,
on this day, that in the divine order
of the universe I was remembered
and cherished. This was a sign
from God. Now the work
is finished. 

Anderson O’Brien lives in Winston-Salem, NC with her devoted husband and two terribly spoiled cats. She has published in Iodine Poetry Journal, The Kentucky Review, Blue Fifth Review, Red River Review and Heavy Bear.