A journal of narrative writing.
As My Son Packs

My father sat on the picnic table

behind the garage that summer cancer paused

to let him see five sons, our sweaty backs

boxing out familiar weight, eyes skyward

like choirboys beneath a rusted rim. 

He lifted me when I twisted my ankle.

I grazed the stubble of his cheek and chin,

smelled Stephan's lotion in his hair. 

He fluffed pillows, smashed ice into a towel,

placed a chip on my tongue.  He gripped

my shoulders as if he saw himself in me,

or else the boy he'd never see whose shoulders

I'm gripping the day before he leaves.