A journal of narrative writing.

My father remembers what I cannot, or will not; a night I brought him to my new country. Castle, fireworks, bagpipes. And he is rolling that night over and over - the way I roll over my love, sometimes say her name as if it was a secret rosary - he rolls the thumb of his tongue over and over, says, he had never seen a castle which did not sell hamburgers, says I bought the tickets, (which I'm sure I didn't) says he danced with the people near him, shook with cracks of actual laughter — and I have no faces from that night and wonder how many beads I have lost and another time he paid for tigers and magic and it cost more than it was worth. So we sat in that dark room with mirrors and strings inside us and the feeling that this neon spandex and black-light hokum was worse than embarrassing. These moments return to me like prayers once whispered in a confessional, forgive me father I have sinned, it has been decades since my last true penance. I have disobeyed my mother, forgotten the hospital you waited in, lost memories of you carrying me above water so when you talk of castles your words are a shocking string of good prayers that I forgot to say since the day I learned them and I roll myself over, mumble through the forgiveness I might also speak.