Today I meet her for the first time:
a brunette, unlike my mother.
She shows me Father’s wallet
photos of him dressed as a pirate
lets me smell his coat hanging in the hall.
She clasps a small black bundle to her heart
then hands it to me, a crumpled plastic bag
Here he is, she whispers. Inside, there is
a matchbox filled with grey powder.
If you want, you can pour some out.