NaPoWriMo - day #7

In the back of a Midwest strip mall brewery
he sits with folded hands, a gentle grin on his face
The same one she last saw him with, inside a 
rent-by-the-hour fake wood casket

It is April, after all,
and he's making a visit in commemoration. 

He listens to his daughter play her first open mic
even though she is almost thirty years old
and even though she cannot see him

Guitar was always her mother's instrument
but tonight he watches her forge her own path
the spirit of the girl she used to be, made of
the spirits of the people who made her. 

He fixes his hat and finishes his beer 

(because if the afterlife is anything like real life

not one ounce of the good stuff will go unenjoyed)

before walking out the door into late spring sunset 

she feels the air rush through the room

and feels love of a ghost 

as natural as the the turning of the seasons