When My Son Brings My Father’s Recliner into the House against My Wishes

He squats just inside the three long windows, cool

and brown, the dog asleep, most days, in his lap.

I address him as I walk through the front door,

ask him about his day, smile and nod at him.

I say it out loud: “Hi Dad! How’s it going?”

My son looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, or

worse, like I am doing this vindictively—

his punishment for defying me. I’m not

saying I’m incapable of either. And

maybe it started out as both: my mind my

new enemy, my anger a smoking

pan of spattering oil. In truth, I speak to

my father- chair because I don’t have to now,

say the things I could have said when he was just

a phone call away, those long months after my

mother died and he was alone in this chair,

waiting. I ask him what he’s eaten, if he

made it to the grocery store, or if he

knows what time the game is on. I nod at his

answers, pour myself another bourbon, sit

on the footstool at his feet for as long as

he wants to talk. I shut my mouth. I listen.