That Bolt bus. With an old Chinese woman singing some eastern version of Greensleeves. It was all the same notes I thought I knew from kindergarten Christmas talent shows, just more falling acoustic cliffs and quick raises between a mix of major and minor chords. It sounded good but strange like first loves; like a mom's melodies to kids that don't promise anything but just talk of a future; it was quiet but constant like the air conditioning. When we got off the bus I found her and thanked her. She was dismissive, "that was a pretty boring bus ride."
Earlier in the day I had seen my dad for about one and a half hours; it was father's day. My sister and I helped unload things from his car (he had driven down in his truck with my mom; a few days of remodels ahead of him.) And we ate pb&j in their kitchen. Afterwards we went to a corner cafe for coffee and iced tea. I told my dad I loved him and that he was a good dad. He told me a sculpture I was working on had turned out well. I think part of getting older is seeing love in digressional conversation and no eye contact; large gaps can be like enclosed arms. Something where the boys that always persist in men are complete.
I can't help but think of what my possible, future children can become.
Even in my laziness I have become something that my dad isn't, he who
soars above in clouds not made of air or water.
He is a stone carving.
He is a shelter.
He is the beginning of my history.