Читать книгу Northwood - Maryse Meijer - Страница 11

ORBIT

I’ll speak just once, here,

about my father.

You were nothing like him:

he was small, lean as a young tree

and scared. He sat in corners

and cleaned his glasses

and tried to smile. He was almost never

there. I mean in his head he wasn’t.

He liked to see me

with my pens, at the kitchen table:

he said I would be

a great artist

though he was an insurance man

who couldn’t name a single painting.

He told me

before he disappeared

about the way he thought

I should love.

Don’t marry, he said,

the one you like best.

That’s the way to keep it, you know.

Friction

slows a thing down.

Love him

from a distance. And he’ll always

be yours.

I said, Yes Dad.

I was ten and uncomprehending.

A year later he left the house

with his pipe and his favorite

shirt

and was found

hanging in a garage

two states away.

I wonder whose heart

he didn’t dare hold close.

I mean,

other than mine