And then the white gloves fold the flag, falling snow snuffed inside, and hand it to your mother, good gray coat, fifty-two years married. Snow rides into our shoes. Birds in the snow, our children's bright queries don't break the swollen quiet. Too late now.
Windshield wipers slap the snow away.
Where silence ended, it stays. He never told his children he loved them, or touched them in affection, except a scouring of the head, or, when grown, a handshake, a tap on the arm. He never apologized. He couldn't recite Shakespeare, wouldn't stretch out with an espionage novel or sing in a piano bar tunes from Gigi. He played the accordion and with his wife at weddings led a polka expertly among the quick couples, his face nearly flickering with pleasure.