Remembering my father

Sometimes I wonder where my father is now
when unexpectedly I hear a voice like his
and recall the modulation of his tones, saying my name.
I last saw him lying in his coffin 18 years ago
Not really him: the undertakers had delicately
rouged his lips and cheeks
But the rest of his skin, his folded fingers,
you could tell they were cold and stiff and dead.
Now each Thanksgiving when I make turkey stuffing
I remember him sitting in the kitchen
(lit only by a dim unshaded bulb)
grating apples and carrots to concoct
his own delicious recipe.
Each year their smell recalls him, and
his elegant hands holding the implements.
I think he's never very far away
maybe in the next city, maybe even the next street
Any moment now I'Il hear him say my name.
And every time I catch sight of my hands
long-fingered, motioning the air like his
I understand how the genes crochet onwards
and my father is still here, through me