The documents my father left rustle inside the drawers
of his study, seeking prominence. I've come home
from Europe to help my mother sort this once and for all,
newspaper cuttings, one of which I sent to a Cape Town poet
who would know what thought made my father keep it;
leaflets scattered in drawers, and letters,
letters of pleas to the world to give his children scholarships,
and deep love letters when he was courting my mother,
before they left Morija and went to Maseru.
She says when she called me for help these
had started rattling the desk like a poltergeist,
and once, she recollects, she could smell smoke
coming from the room.
Some of the papers were dusty.
But when we were done with that room it was tidy,
my father's thoughts in files along several shelves,
like the books he was going to write. Overwhelming,
to sit here among his things, and pull a writing pad forward,
and find you have absolutely nothing to say to the world.
I pick up the copy of a Reformed Church Nicene Creed
he once copied out in longhand, and framed,
and remain in that dark room, searching for meaning.