In the only photograph
I have of my father
I stand between him
and my mother bridging
a gap already widening
my newborn sister asleep
on the bed
in her christening gown.
I am round cheeked
not yet two and I
hold on to one of his fingers.
He looks young, slim,
bookish…
His thick glasses giving him
the look of a scholar.
It is his hand
that catches my eye
the way it reaches out naturally
toward my baby fingers.
It is hard to imagine how
he so easily
let them go.
In the only photograph
I have of you
I stand on the fringe
you dead enter
almost as old
as he would be now
bookish…
your thick glasses giving you
the look of a scholar.
And I suddenly realize
why I fly back into your arms
even though
you promise me nothing
when you leave
and come back
and leave again.
It is your hands
the way they hold me
the safety I feel
when holding one tightly
the familiar terror
every time
you let go.