If I find the right song on the jukebox— some Waylon, some Haggard— then my father's ghost will stagger to the dance floor and be so distracted that I might set myself free from the reservation Indian boy he wanted me to be—no, no, no, this is what happens so often when I write a poem. I began this poem with a vague idea of what it might become— I thought that "Escape Room" was a good title and might lead me to a poem about something new—but then my father's ghost barged into one of my poems yet again. "Junior," he says. "You can't stop writing poems about me." Yeah, I'm Sherman Alexie, Junior. My father named me after himself. On the rez, there's a gravestone with his carved name that's also my carved name. Damn, damn. Dear Fathers, stop burdening your sons by naming them after you. Damn, damn. When they lowered my father's casket into his grave, my name was buried with him. But, now, every time I start to write a poem, my father digs himself from his final dirt (It's not final!) and rises yet again into my life. Hello, Father, welcome to yet another poem. Here, let me give you a tour of my home. Here's the living room, kitchen, and all the bedrooms. Here's my wife And sons. Let me make you a cup of instant coffee, like you like it, with too much sugar. Dear Father, I hope this poem has been a good host. Dear, Dear, Dear Father, I just realized that I'm your ghost.
A few years before my dad died (age 96, 2020), I showed him a photo of himself next to his tank in the 4th Armored Division, World War II. I asked if he recognized the person in the picture. "Is that you?" he said. (He'd had cataract surgery, but still.) But we do look very much alike,and as I age, I look more like him. So much so that when I pass a mirror, I sometimes think it is his ghost.
My mother shows up in everything. Especially the mirror.