ShiningKnight Posted August 15, 2004 Report Share Posted August 15, 2004 This "Keep this," my father writes. "It's the last card you'll get from me." I have a collection – from Christmas, Easter, my summer birthday. He empties his house, gives furniture to strangers. "Take this," he says, offering me frozen food that must keep two hundred miles. He stuffs suits in my car, fills the front seat with shoes. "Wear this," he says, meaning old ties and a sweatshirt abandoned years ago. He's proud to show two bare rooms, a garage without tools. The newspaper passes in the carrier's sack; magazines expire. Behind us, the sun slides to memory. The shadows we cast slip into our shoes. "I'm ready for this," he says, but doesn't follow me to the driveway. As if he means me to see how everything will look without him, he's vanished when I reach my car. Gary Fincke Prairie Schooner Volume 78, Number 2 Summer 2004 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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