The Quotable

The Night My Father Died

They were getting carpet,
at my grandfather’s house.
The snow falling quietly,
covering the hills
with white.
Everyone was facing a different part of the wall,
not talking.
Taking our shoes off before we walked in,
the smell of newness.
I was watching my sister sleep on a couch.
The tag on the end of the pillow sticking out
said it was 100 percent-
real down, goose feathers.
We didn’t know yet.
My mother was the closest-
and when it rang,
she picked it up-
said, hello?

What struck me most
about that moment,
was the plushness
of new carpet-
like how,
when my mother
dropped the phone on it,
it barely made a sound.


Robert Walicki, a freelance poet, has been inspired by his inner muse through various forms of writing and poetry over the years. He is an active member of the Pittsburgh Writer’s Studio and the Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange. He has had his poetry published in Emerge Literary Journal, Eunoia Review, The Pittsburgh Post Gazette and is forthcoming in others.


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