Halfway North

It wasn’t Thanksgiving that got me,

the overflowing table where he wasn’t

for the first time –

my windshield not cleaned

the paper trash not taken to the burn barrel –

No. It was a practical three pack of flashlights

that did me in, the kind of thing

that men of my father’s age buy

in a fit of desperate love

from wherever’s open

the day before Christmas –

where they are hiding from the maelstorm

of general cleaning, potato peeling, folding table retrieval.

Disappearing on the pretense of newspapers, or cigars,

buying packs of batteries

chocolate covered peanuts

car wash coupons, lottery tickets, handwarmers –

to be wrapped in a brown paper grocery bag, taped shut,

the benediction of a name in all caps in Sharpie on the outside.

Here. I didn’t know what to get you.

I thought you could use this.

I know you like these.

Keep them in your car.

All of those words translate the same –

and when the paper bag is torn

the words hang in the air like bobbers –

they rise up and float among the rooms

of the house you grew up in,

they catch in your throat in the flashlight aisle,

making it impossible

to speak,

even to say

what you said

so many times,

one more time.