My Father

My father was the kindest of men. He lived near the plant so that he could be home

early, so that he could unplug the eaves troughs, so that he could reinvent the basement

in a dream he had of paradise, so that he could hold my mother. The plant made

tires, with a ceiling just over eight feet, crowded with heat and the stench of hot

rubber. For forty years he worked there so that he could come home, pick up my head

or my sister’s, and toss it in the sky like a ball. And he would laugh. But his face was

so distant. Like he was watching me and my sister from a great distance. Like he was

living on borrowed time. Like he was trying to store up his memories, making home

movies in his head. Looking over his shoulder. Wondering when it was coming. And

then it came. And father lay half in and half out of his bed in his underwear. He lay

there cold and distant like he always had. A mystery. Love in a brief glimpse.

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