How do you explain to your son
that his father is a psychopomp
like Charon or the Grim Reaper?
You try your best to not say “psychopomp”
even though he’d giggle at the word
and you try to explain that it’s not scary
to give advice to tourists when you’re
a local, and that while it’s sad
that he doesn’t live with us anymore
it’s great work.
You don’t explain that he never asked
for the job, that he was scared to take it
or that he talked about it every night
for the entire third trimester before agreeing
on the way to the hospital, signing the contract
after his son’s birth certificate was stamped.
Even when lit in shaky beams by fluorescent tubes
the rules were unmistakable:
You must always be willing to hold their arm.
You must never smile too wide or cry.
You must leave them as soon as you get there.
