A Framed Photograph
The day after my father died,
his boss, Charlie, came to our house
carrying a box.
Early evening,
my mother and I welcomed him
into the foyer.
The box contained a full carton
of Kent cigarettes. We didn’t know
he still smoked.
Oh, two packs a day,
Charlie said, as if the fact
didn’t matter now.
We didn’t smell it
on him. His car didn’t smell.
How could he hide it so well?
We found a framed photograph in the box
of a woman with blonde hair,
smiling.
We didn’t know
who she was; Charlie said
he didn’t know.
Then he said how sorry
he was
for our loss and left.
My mother and I stood
under a hanging light fixture
that felt too bright.
Three years before,
my father had started wearing
green and blue leisure suits
with a gold necklace
that held a shark’s tooth.
He moved out
for a few months,
spent Christmas in Fort Myers,
then begged to come back home.
The photo disappeared.
We didn’t want to remember what didn’t fit
but did.