the last time my father visited me in l.a.
he stayed at the holiday inn express
hermosa beach and we ate
at a mexican place called el gringo.
that saturday, i picked him up early
and we drove north on the 110 freeway
to griffith park, winding our way
up the mountain and parking
in the observatory lot.
i wonder if we’ll see any movie stars,
he said, getting out of the car,
already thin from the cancer
that would kill him. i think
they filmed m.a.s.h. somewhere
up here, i said, starting for the trail.
we hiked briskly for the most part,
not to the top but to that first lookout
opening onto the hollywood sign,
where i snapped a picture of him
snapping a picture of that famous
tinseltown landmark, a tuft
of black mustard (actually yellow)
brushing against his waist as he
flared his elbows and framed the shot.
when we got back to the car, he said,
i’m glad i got to see that, doug,
and nodding, i said, me too, dad.
later that year, as my daughter
scrolled through the images on her
grandfather’s camera, she called out,
look! here’s one of the hollywood sign.