(no subject)
I'm watching the dogs for my father. He and sharron went to wisconsin. Before they left, i fell asleep on his shoulder. I can't look at him with his body wasting away and his beard awkwardly thin as well. & that scar that peeks above his equally worn shirt's collar and creeps down to his belly. So i look down. Or up. Because the sight of him makes my mind go blank but for thoughts of sledding on gleaming saucers or the mittens we gave him seventeen years ago that he still wears or the otter creek boys band practices at the lodge or friday night dinner with granny and her bizarre knick-knacks or gospel music and sunday morning church in the hot virginia summer or drinking dr. pepper from one of those seafoam green cups my grandparents had or his scratchy beard against my soft cheek. Or that sliver of a memory i may or may not have of a day at the lake summerset beach with all five of us in attendance. I hate him because with even a hint of a look he can turn me into the four year old that didn't know yet that her father was a no-good narcissist in cowboy boots.
Anyways, i'm walking around wearing his overcoat with a tiny dog in the pocket and listening to his old bluegrass recordings. I'm contemplating burning his billy graham book collection and any others that scream hypocrisy such as: what makes a man?, or parents on trial.
v.