Gone & Gone

My Father’s Hands Are Warm

50 My Father’s Hands Are Warm You wear your father’s half-mooned shirt, the faintly-scented remains of a man who never worked a day in his life that he didn’t somehow come to regret. You have to remember the remembering before it gives out. It could be the last thing you do. No luminosity like the present. Your father held his head up until the very end then asked for water. Didn’t finish. You hold the glass up to his forehead, force the remembering through: It was cold. It was snowing. It was February. ...