| TO MY FATHER, AFTER HIS DEATH I knew that you weren’t really dead. That if I kept looking, kept driving, I’d find you. Didn’t think it would be here though, that you’d be pumping gas in Kansas. You still smoke. I can tell. The way your shoulders hunch over gives you away. When you push nozzles into canals, into the backs of cars, you heave, your shoulders roll. Your stomach reaches closer to your back, toward smooth pink scars. You look smaller, shirking into yourself like that. Silently pumping gas, coughing occasionally, scratching your sunburned bald spot. I watch you from the shoulder of I-70 through dead bugs on my windshield. There is a small convenience store attached to the gas station. You enter it, and when you emerge I see the bulge in your pants. You’ve bought Kools: your brand of cigarettes. Stashed them in your front hip pocket, next to an Almond Joy. I see you still squint, smoke, have bad posture, eat Almond Joys. Quiet as ash, you in the Kansas of Colorado, one foot almost in each state. The moment you noticed me must have been when you straightened your back up, crushed your half smoked cigarette and smiled. But you know I can’t come any closer. I can’t pull into the station, roll down my window and touch your face. j.pastiloff Thank you for taking the time to read my writing. I will be adding more. If you would like to post a comment about my writing please send me an e-mail. Comments From My Readers |
