The Last Conversation with my Dad

Sitting cross-legged,
branch scratches and purple bruises adorn my skinny legs,
marking the time of summer.
Moths cling to the window screens,
lured by the dim light of my flower printed lamp.
I pick up the limp, humidity drenched sheets off of the floor
from last night’s restless sleep,
and lightly pull each end to the corners of my bottom bunk bed.
My dad steps into the room,
wearing nothing but shorts.
I think this is because I have stolen too many of his t-shirts
to wear as my nightgowns.
He brushes a drop of sweat from his brow
and hands me the camera manual,
asking specific questions,
ones I cannot remember 11 years later.
And then he is gone,
leaving only fragments of his smell;
ones I cannot remember 11 years later.
Not even from a stolen t-shirt.

______

My last conversation with my dad was about a camera.
I do not quite know the significance of this revelation,
yet I also know it’s not a “coincidence.”

*reposted from 2011*

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