On the eighth anniversary­
of my father’s death,
I come to the Allegro
for coffee,
the last, best hope
for remembering my father
in the cafés and restaurants
of this city.
I have never had much
love for the Allegro.
But I do have love
for a memory.
I was twenty-one
then, living in an
apartment off the Ave.
when one morning I met
my father for coffee.
Six weeks later,
I would leave
Seattle for college
and never see
him alive again.
But on the morning
that I remember
it is a normal day
in Seattle circa 2007
and we are sitting
together in this booth.
I don’t remember
the words I used.
I remember listening.
I remember him
telling me about how
he used to come to the Allegro
as a young writer to develop
the ideas for the stories
he later wrote
for newspapers and magazines.
I remember that I was
quiet, taken with the notion
there was more to the café
than I could presently see—
coffee cup, scone,
copper chrome
of the table.
There were also stories,
some of them ours,
some of them others’.
In moments I am still here
with him listening.
He never left.