When my father talks about time

When my father talks about time

he draws circles in the air.

One circle

means one year

when I was born in the summer

and he walked with me in his arms

on sticky July evenings

to the grove filled with fireflies near our house.

Fourteen circles later

drawn with a steady hand

in the briny ocean air

I walked my dog to that grove

after field hockey practice,

sweat still dried to my temples.

My father swirls his fingers through the space between us

like a wave unfurling itself onto the beach

while he talks about me finishing school--

the circles blurring together.

That was three years ago

when we went to the beach

just the two of us talking and reminiscing--

when he told me

he believed in me.

I see now that that was what he was saying

with his unwarranted suggestions

and rejections.

I see now too, his love

that I do not yet understand

and how it welled up in the pink rims of his glassy, blue eyes.

Somehow filling him up and drowning me at the same time.

Despite the swirling currents that pull me in then push me out to sea,

I know I will always love those eyes

and the mind that aches behind them.

that mind that dreams in golden light--

when the sun is bursting through the trees

and he suddenly veers onto Claiborne Road--

racing to catch the sun

before it dips below the Bay.

--Written in Lassen Volcanic National Park by the sweetest of Creeks

30 Sept 2018