Admission

Within the sooty pages of a half-read memoir, I find a pictureof Papa and me. Taken after we tumbled out of the death-defying rollercoaster ride. Hung lopsided, his smileunsure if he lost something when we were suspendedin glass capsules: his tooth filling, a pill, his hat or a littleof his head. I show him the picture, he laughs and brags And I cry because I’m certain thatafter he’s gone, this question will follow me aroundthe way memory chases everything that slips awaybetween the gap in its teeth. It has taken me nine yearsand ten months to let him into my silences—grief tucked within foldsof monosyllables: yes, no, hmmm.I am leaning on him in the picture, shakinga green soda can. A click, and we were both soakedin an overflow of sugar and laughter. Now he sleeps alone on her sideof the bed. I tiptoe around the drapes, careful not to makethe curtain rings chime. He calls me , meaning prayer—my late mother’s name—as he opens his eyes. I let the sun inblind by blind. Wait until we adjust to the sudden light