this week i

identified airport pick-up by the poster waved above his head.  we ate woodberry kitchen, drank spro, before our victory lap.  thanks for the careers

met pre-academyhealth, a few days before seeing her work on the nightly news.  an external affairs tizzy, some debate about familial relationships of prominent same last names in health policy, and a broken kitchen sink

worked in mount pleasant, stayed late for the stewed slop and strawberry shortcake.  david named his software

come home most evenings.  my father reads on his back, in the light of the lamp, forearms upright.  he smiles, i'm not sure if it's relief or just regular happiness.  it's rare but it's genuine.  "where were you all day?"  "dad, the sun is still in the sky"  eight in the summertime.  we exchange banter, as much as he'll tolerate, i already know his responses.  he shoos me out of the room, rustles the paper stiff and upright.  he finds his place on the page, i close his bedroom door from the other side.  sometimes a bridge to the outside world, sometimes just his kid.  making memories is a funny thing