Dancing With My Father At My Son’s Wedding
There’s no room on the floor, no place he won’t get bumped and I won’t be able to stop his fall. So we find a corner. He’s taken his hearing aids out — the band pounds its assault. I take his hand, a former boxer’s hand with a father’s thicker fingers. He rests his wrist on my shoulder for me to lead. I pull him closer, feel for his balance, find his eyes, unsure if he sees mine. I nod once and gently press him backwards, then to the side. I study our black shoes, see him teaching me to spit-shine, his brush punishing the heels and toes like enemies. He wobbles. I grab tight. It was just a shuffle step, a fighter’s feint. He smirks, loves that I fell for it. I count out loud, shouting over the music, as if he could hear, as if this were only about dancing.
Estelle And Bob
My father kneels at my mother’s grave to ask her permission to go on match.com. He unfolds some pages it took him hours to print. Eleanor enjoys bowling and the beach — the sand tickles her toes. Sherri hopes to see London. Rachel is a twin. He crushes the papers back into his jacket pocket. Stupid. Other mourners speak to other graves. He returns their only-we-know nod, slides a finger down the first carved letter of the headstone, follows them all, then the dates, wipes some nonexistent dirt. Still looks new, he says. And he hopes she won’t hate him — Benny from the card game put him up to it. Two dumb putzes. He pulls some short weeds, places three pebbles on the craggy head of the stone, and sings Happy Birthday, raising his voice at her name, so everyone knows he’s with her.
