Father Model

I separated the plastic pieces from their factory pressingsand laid them out on the newspaper, though I had not readit yet. I unfolded the thin instructions and squinted and held themat a distance. I blinked. Tab A into Slot B. I stuck a safety pinin the glue to release it. I no longer needed a note from my fatherto buy glue. I didn’t sniff the glue. Not too much of it.Not much at all, really.

                                                    I woke up eighteen years later—my son had a beard, which he stroked semi-wisely,and my daughter had breasts and a smirk I did notrecall. I compared my model to the one on the box.Don’t try this at home. Or on the road. Or anywhere,really. I was missing a tiny piece—the brain, I think.Directions are overrated. The father did not fitin the bottle. The father emptied the bottle.The father marked the bottle XXX. The father paintedthe model, but his paintbrush was not tiny enoughfor all the tiny parts. The model was a mess,its mouth a slurred whisper, its belly thickwith layered paint. Its hair fell out due to a mysteriouslack of glue. We took it outside in the ice and snow.My son brought the matches, my daughter the explosives.