After The Eulogy

things adhered — on the hard drive and in
the way shadows survived — as when I browsed
the vacation to Holguin and six photos
from somewhere I’ve never been ping ponged
the software’s interface.  Or when you now
dead four years reappeared.  A ghost
of black and white photos — in the DNA.

It’s impossible to explore a foreign
road before your death without encountering
a dozen places I’ve never been.  And may never
go.  May never see, except in photos
as though I’m invited to dinner somewhere
and the photo albums are pulled out
with the cherished bottle of Cherry Brandy.

Look, see where I’ve been. 
See what I’ve done.
See what survives. 
Long after I’m gone.