My father is laughing. His laughter is
crucial
to the scene. He’s telling this story as we
stroll
up Quinpool Road, gesturing excitedly with
his bald head, wagging his white beard, the
story
of his grandma breaking her ankle, how she
moaned all night, filling the
country house
with her moans. A woman clutching a baby
walks past us. We both glance at her. All
this
is crucial. Beside her, a man falls to the
sidewalk,
in front of us, thud. He’s hurt bad.
Twitching.
Groaning. We stand over him. Not touching
him.
His bones, shattered. Did he leap off the
roof?
His breath rough, eyes restless as a bird’s.
And he looks exactly like my father.
Same age.
Bald, beard. He shudders, stops breathing.
Late evening. A guitar being strummed
nearby.
The strings call for love. An ambulance
arrives.
Orderlies step out: perfect twins my father.
Onlookers gather, mirror images of my
father:
even this “lady,” white poodle in her purse,
is bald & bearded. Only this cop
trotting up
on a white horse looks different. He is a
skeleton.
I climb up & hold his ribs. We gallop
off
past McDonald’s & the bank. A pack of
dogs
keeps pace, barking in the last light. I
shut
my eyes, imagining I’m three again, clinging
to
the tank of my father’s Triumph motorcycle:
he is dropping me off at daycare.
