Sam, Returns

I am sitting in the kitchen, eating cinnamon apple
pie, and a man’s hand comes up behind me, covers
my eyes, it’s my father’s hand, I know it immediately,
smelling of shaving cream and topsoil, his fingers thick
warm, I turn, holding his hand, I’ve not seen him in years,
his face round, shy even, I’ve got something for you, he says,
he’s come back from the dead, a surprise, he says, I didn’t have
it ready when I left eleven years ago
, and it’s a play, my

father has written a play for me, it’s the story of his life, and
it’s being performed in my living room, four actors, they
are sitting cross-legged on the carpet, and one of them,
a young girl, her back to me, gets up, turns around and it’s
Ali, my sweet Ali, in light white jeans, she is twelve years
old, she runs over to us, throws her arms around her
grandfather and me, and skips back to her place  in the play, my

father is leaving, I want him to stay, he is leaving, and with him,
the play

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