right above my knees.
Mom set the table for five and I counted;
Stella, Marina, me, mom. Who else? He
arrives earlier than expected and flings
his briefcase over the couch.
I stand by in the corridor as motionless
as a child in awe can intend to be.
He wiggles his tie down and removes his
tartan sports coat,
the button of his shirt sitting atop of his belly about to
jump out of the seams.
He bellows, 'what's for lunch?' directed at the kitchen,
but mom doesn't answer. I don't think He
has seen me yet.
I still don't move, hoping this time,
if I stay quiet long enough, the behemoth of a man that stands upon me
is kind, and maybe this time,
just for once, I'll get a nice little wrapped up caramel that he might know I like,
I mean if he was paying attention last Sunday when mom stopped by the corner shop after church.
But, why would He? I mean,
why would anyone, in this world, reach down to look at a child's bare knees,
no scrapes, unscathed,
a well-behaved, invisible idea of a boy?
But this time, Goodness Gracious,
this time I remembered what lunch would be –
a trail of voice came out my mouth without a second thought
so He looks down.
'Thank you' follows, a pat on the head, a brief smile.
I frolic in acceptance,
about to gleefully kick my feet, I contain
any emotions that may come off as loving,
for one does not love a father in the same way one loves a mother. Why would anyone?
As I set down the tray, steaming,
I sit by his side. His only boy, there's a look back at me
with soft brown eyes, inside the casket of a tough man, a face worn out by the summer days
and the wind of a thousand sails,
He extends his hand. Soft, warm, calloused. Mine feels like a little present. He
holds my hand and we close our eyes to pray.
In my head, I say a prayer for me, for the day
I claim my acceptance. The day that comes where it's my seat at the table,
my pants reach my ankles and I own my ties,
the day where my wife awaits home for me, in an apron, smiling.
Nobody moves for a second. He says thank you, and with my eyes still closed,
I bow my head down to kiss his hand.
Eyes shoot wide. Why would I do this? He doesn't understand,
a bewildered look from around the table, the boy that now decides to kiss.
How else can I show my love? I think, I don't know what I thought,
a tender kiss on His hand, just a reverence,
but it doesn't elicit the response I expected. Instead, I get punished
by his never ending silence, his disapproval, a shift in his eyes which I can't change.
China and silver click and clack,
my hand breaks apart from his, limp,
reminds me to go back to my place.