by | Apr 5, 2022 | Issue Twenty Six, Poetry

I am in a parking lot & Dad appears. I gather quickly this is a dream because I don’t own an Odyssey anymore & Dad passed nine years ago. I ask him if he is driving and he tells me to take the wheel. Question this more than his not having gray hair, or a wheelchair,        or breath. Before we leave, he tries to find his wood rosary beads I haven’t seen since Mom died. Wants to hang them from the rear-view mirror.  Rummages through the backseat clutter of jackets & masks & Dunkin’ cups & junk mail. & I am        the      only      one    judging the mess. He produces a map & declares this is good enough as he adjusts his Air Force sunglasses, & pops a peppermint Lifesaver. Tells me to get a move on. But all of the doors are still open—                               & I am sitting criss-cross on cracked asphalt. & I don’t want to start      because I am already lost,                    because this is fixing to be a long ride—                & Dad disappears                       again before he can offer me direction,            before I can say goodbye.

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