At some point, fathers stop unraveling
in private, don’t they? Like the smell of
burnt toast riding the nose of an unwanted
guest. Once when a man tried to accost our family
at lunch, my father let him know his hands were
versatile in love. The man wanted proof
that this 6-foot 200-pound father could
fight. My mother didn’t need proof.
My brother wanted to finish his Fanta
Lemon. I needed to see how many languages
love could be dished in. It is neither
the hardness nor the softness that breaks you.
The not knowing does. And time, like Ali with his
feet, shifts the days this way and that way, gliding
on with dutiful cockiness, till men of hard softness
can swing no more. I saw it in my father’s sunken
eyes as they reflected the cost of fighting
cancer without the backing of a kidney. No
cornerman, just skin draping his bones as
if in readiness of a goodbye that was not going
to be long in coming, as if setting the table for a last
supper with no Fanta Lemon nor first and last-born
sons. I would have liked to show him how full
and brave my love was. All I did was choke on
sobs when my mother sent me a photo as proof
of our Lord’s merciful kindness. This kindness
is hard. Almost as hard as the softness I get
from my father.