Dad

I think of you with tenderness that seldom knew breath when you were alive. Like tattered, yellowed leaves images appear scattered in the recesses of my memory. Mom and I wait patiently at the East Williston station where the 6:20 takes a brief bow before its next destination. I wait under the station’s awning, promising mother I won't dance on the tracks when I see an army of gray flannel felt hats; a tide moving to shore, smelling of stale cigarettes and filthy newsprint. You appear from the gray fog. Your disappointments, your exhaustion gives way as you lift me and my face is poised above your own. I peer into your velvet brown eyes, crinkling at the corners. Later, your massive hands massage mine over the porcelain sink as thick snow-white lather soothes our intertwined fingers. I look up into the mirror and I see your serious expression behind my smiling face. Dad, did you see me? Because now I am thinking of you with tenderness that never knew breath.