You were everything,
acted like everything.
You were a particle
and, once I could walk, a wave.
I never knew where I’d see you, even
after Mom discovered you that time in
Kansas City, circa 1975, and made you
alter your trajectory to meet us for a meal.
The uncertainty was always mine—when,
where you’d show up after that, who, what
you’d pretend to be, just how you’d change
when observed, no matter my relation to you.
I tried to know you, meet you again, talk to you
on my terms, before a semester in college taught me
that you could never simultaneously be known
in time and place, no matter how much energy
I exerted. And so you died that year,
unobserved and unobservable, no longer
a force, but a father in theory alone, cleaving
without substance to your natural state.