"what are you doing?"
i say to his back
"watching the traffic."
he says to the road

confused tiny mind churns

"why?"
i say to his back
"it's just nice"
he says to the road

metal folding chair
turned to consume the space
no room for me
only back and confusion

watching the cars he couldn't drive
going to places he'd never go
his thoughts were bigger than the moment
mine were not

In the dragonfly stillness 
I watch
six long legs graceful, 
cool stream just tense enough to support their alien progression.
He watches me
dandelion eyes
wild and short lived.

"You will be an amazing woman." He whispers
I watch
he watches
frozen golden in a moment of 'will be'.

This too is a piece.

this is not a memory
this is today
this moment
this twist and choke

the sorrow I have evaded for so long
trembling in the bushes as it passed

today I heard it coming and I jumped up and said 'it's time'
and it didn't falter like I'd hoped it would
it didn't slow
it smiled a toothy grin and squared its shoulders

and I was so small
and I was so sure

so here i am now, under its weight
unable to breathe
unable to scream
and feeling it familiar

I've been here before under a different monster
and he couldn't kill me either

Our pilgrimage.
Saturday morning
three blocks in the sunshine
birds in my hair
tangled joy and adventure

Our ritual.
Outside, clutching thirty cents in dirty hands, I chose
Sunkist...
Chocola...
7up...

Inside, clutching habit and familiarity, he chose
white can...
black letters...
BEER

offerings made
prayers complete
we moved to our return

This day
he lurched to a stopping, 
intent and bearded
change rattling dully in the machine
newspapers shook, dancing in the breeze
the tabernacle opened with a scream

Carefully lifting the inky smelling pile
presenting it to the sky he murmured
"news should be free"
my small voice, orange lipped and soft
"news should be free"

Genuflecting, he knelt, 
placing the pile at the foot of the soda machine
an offering to the Chocola gods
a sacrifice to the Liquor Barn

Sacrament complete, we turned home

Our worship
The church of beverages
The holy place of free news
The sacred promise of soda

This too is a part.

warm rich clouds
sunlight rot and dust
stirring motes 
clogging mouth and nose
tiny lungs ache

it smells like a kind of home still
not 'home' 
a kind of home
a place I wanted to belong
a place I wanted to feel safe

I smelled it on men and felt longing
I smelled it on myself and felt whole

familiar, like sassafras and grandma
cigarettes and dad
smothered by the warm
held by the scent as his arms never would

and still it's vinyl and stinking
cloying and full

and still
in line at the store
organic yogurt in hand
I smell it and feel a stranger in this life
my eyes scan for the man who carries home on his jacket

how do I love a man who smells of grapefruit and lavender
how do I love myself who smells of oatmeal and mint

how do I love without the scent of a slow dying

I know the correct cucumber to salt ratio
1:2
small slices
quick shakes

my dad taught me through smoke and distance
as he drank himself to death
as he smoked himself to rot

sitting hard on the irony of his lesson in moderation
I feel a begrudging gratitude

I learned to properly eat cucumber on a warm summer night
that happiness can be simple and even bitter
that one shake too many does irreparable damage

I never knew an adult to be so fragile
I never knew how to look at him instead of the cucumber slices he passed

I wonder now if he felt the drink that killed him
as I felt the third shake of salt that ruined everything

‘Mind my cigarette!’

dangerous hugs dodging embers
quiet curses
impatient sighs
hot shame
buffalo child turning a hug into a catastrophe

his skulking frustration
his lurking guilt
my wilting embarrassment
his need to smoke
my need to be held

my place in the queue
behind the cigarettes
behind the beer
behind his shame
buffalo man turning a child into a catastrophe

it is no wonder then
years later ...

when I so slowly wound myself up to a man
when I so quietly leaned in for an embrace
when he so readily put out his cigarette to hold me

It’s no wonder I fell in love.

‘Dad’ is naked and lonely, unfinished … 
tipped up at the end like a question.
‘My Dad’ is recollection and whole, a statement and a claiming.

‘Dad’ feels foreign in my mouth, mochi to my potato palette.
I am not a daughter who says ‘Dad’.
Or
I am no longer a daughter who says ‘Dad’.

I have now tipped the scales.

Today I sit on the side of my life
where I have talked about my father more than I ever spoke to him.

I do not miss the slow burn disappointment waiting for his call.
I do not miss the twisting churn of his failure.
I do not miss the warm weight of his guilt.

Still, his death stole some wicked small fundamental parts of me
and my convenient ‘not missing’ has burrowed a hole into my self
left a hungry wound.

It’s time to mourn.
It’s time to visit his grave
and exhume the bits of myself I buried with him.
Time to learn to walk away from a man who didn’t treat me well 
and NOT leave anything behind.

How do I choke on the truth 
and stay present with the cold panic of this pain?
How do I sit with the knowledge that he gave me so very little,
that with his death I only lost the unlikely 
hoping he would suddenly want to father me?

As the sun rises today I sit with the burn and the twist and the crush.
I hold it in shaking hands like riverside clay, 
sifting and squinting, 
searching for worth and truth.

As the sun rises today I am brave like boot buckles
like Marlboro Reds.
I swagger into the poetry.

Here we go Dad.

Here we go.