A stray follows the man who picks plastic from the beach every morning.
All tagged father
A stray follows the man who picks plastic from the beach every morning.
I consider his marshmallow roasting technique: expectant, leaning forward, cautious not to catch his treat aflame as he rolls the stick between his hands like he’s molding spaghetti out of Play-Doh.
I pulled on jeans and a soft sweatshirt and stepped out of the camper into the cool morning. Mist kissed my cheeks, chilled my hands.
I used to look in the mirror and see my father. Now it's my mother who stares back.
The phone’s ring pierced my mental fog as I lay in the hospital room.
Father motions her behind the steering wheel. We’re on the field he graded with a landing strip in mind, so where’s the harm?
“First,” I say, “we need to beat the cream cheese until it's smooth.”
Mom buttoned me into my best pink dress, a ribbon tied in my hair, and sent us off to the restaurant where a famous pianist was booked.
When I was eleven years old, my Dad took me to a meeting in a smoky, crowded union hall.
She sees me and freezes. Our eyes lock. Coincidence, not genetics, that they are the same blue.
I’m two, maybe three, wearing a baggy diaper and standing in shin-deep puddle water. Leah’s here too, all pigtails and chubby legs and chubby cheeks.
Man, what a tough crowd.
I’m in my final year of high school and recently announced plans to go to art school, a life-long dream.
Born of fierce independence and intent on passing this on to his children, my father required us to learn from his excellent financial acumen.
“There’s nothing more that we can do here, ma’am,” one of the paramedics said.
I sit on the idling school bus, knitting a scarf and waiting for the other students to board so we can all go home, but the head that appears at the front of the bus belongs to my father, not a fellow student.
I have always been a stickler for meticulous preparation and planning, perhaps dating back to my Boy Scout days or maybe just a product of my OCD.
Three texts. Nine words. "The baby died. I’ve miscarried. There was no heartbeat."
While surfing the web I came across a painting titled Island of Shells. It reminded me of Barbados, my birth island.
“Rock, scissors, paper, shoot!” His tiny hand forms a fist which I tenderly enclose within my own, wishing as I do that I’ll never have to let it go.