visiting my father

Visiting my father  I met my brother in the town where he was on his way to see our father and wanted me to tag along He, our dad, lived in an old house and surprised to see his youngest son also He brought beer from the kitchen and my brother and he spoke about labor politics  I was at the time a communist and had  contempt for those not sharing my faith After all, I had spent several days at  a hospital in Odessa, where doctors wore tall white hats, a chef would envy My father avoided looking my way I sat reading a newspaper, looking him over He was of middle height and still had dark hair, slim, I wondered if he was a kven The first time I saw him in 1948, he was drunk gave me a bar of chocolate with photo of a female film star inside the wrapper He was much older now, rolled hand-made cigarettes and had a cough  That was the last time I met my father when he died at seventy-five, I was as usual absent