After we had fallen into each other’s arms,
Matt apologized profusely for his careless comment
that had reminded me of my father’s illness
- I’m sorry. I’m sorry. -
and I slowly closed my eyes, seeing my father’s body
asleep at home, where we were headed. But as I drifted
farther from his reach, I heard the guitar singing
through weak speakers a song I did not know but
suddenly felt I should, and I pulled the thick scent that hung
in his cotton sky to my burning lungs, clasping his hand
a little tighter, and closing fingers that had finally warmed
against the wishes of the winter night and his broken
heater. The blue sock was shoved into his bare
vent to keep the cold from me, and I looked at the gray
that tinged this old sock and then to him, eyes opening
as if for the first time into a pure light,
and said to his troubled, lovely face, “It’s alright. Really.”