Pocket Dad
He wiggles to the surface, hanging by his fingers, peeking out my pocket at colorful grocery produce. “Fancy Girl! Now you buy cherries? They’re priced like rubies!” He’s a little game piece on a keychain, since his heart attack. Begging for thimbles of whiskey. “No”, I say. He squeaks, “Who d’ya think you are?” Clearing the detritus of the dead takes time—his records, dentures, voice. Once, I was small and he was a giant, making me jump for the razor strap hanging above the toilet, to whip me. Now I wad tissues onto his head, stuffing him down deeper.Photo Credit: puuikibeach
So powerful. Amazing.
Reminds me of Robin Cook👌🏾
Terrifyingly good. It’s going to haunt me.