For My Father

When I think of my father my heart starts beating in time with his 7 A.M. footsteps on hardwood floors. His image rests in the second chamber of my heart. If I could shrink you down and put you in there, you’d hear the sharp, industrial twang of golf balls alongside windblown, sun-wrecked dune reeds and shark fins cresting the ocean’s ceiling. My nose fills with scents of SPF 4 and scheduled coffee. Salt spray off the foreshore permeates the air as he runs up and down the neural pathways he forged with white hot reaffirmations and ice cold habits. If you were to run the needle over my inherited, though painted skin, the music would radiate in clouds of bookstore doorbells, deafening sneezes and sports bar televisions. This year I’m starting construction on a new chamber in my heart; one just to hold the memories of my father, a chamber filled with the loud, consistent banging of beanbags on wood, a chamber big enough for me to chase after frisbees tossed with sixty-eight-year-old skill most crucially, a chamber with integrity enough to hold the blue, persistent flame in focus long enough for me to light my own cigarette, and smile as the smoke comes out. The new room design has soundproof walls and the door and locks are all fireproof, withstanding flames as hot as the water my mother uses to wash his greasy meatloaf pans.