29

One day I saw my father
through fog. He had one leg
hooked over his shoulder.
His left shoulder,
his right leg. It looked that way
but fog distorts sound and sight.
 
And memory. But that’s how
I remember him:
leg over his shoulder,
and telling me
to never swallow a girl’s tail.

<<<

43

I saw my father through sunlight through the window through the fog of experience. He was at the bottom of the garden, bent over the gooseberries, touching the green globes with the tenderness of a beast. Such power channelled to such humble servants. He seemed to give permission to each berry to let go of the bush before catching it in his hand. If he had ever raged, all memory of pain was now forgotten* as he tended, half-hidden, to the plants behind the parted hedgerows until he became a moving sphere of peace among the vibrating green. Is there a word* for love given in secret from a safe distance?

forgotten: temporarily illuminated, thus providing radiation for currently-forming memories

word: mechanism that gives the illusion of contacting while providing further, possibly needed, distance

>>> 49 51