A field of cotton with a photo of mementos of her father

Father’s Day

I track my daddy through the landscape.

The dry creek bed next to our house
I am four.
Lugging the six-pack of beer down the hill,
Banging my knees, once dropping the cans on my foot.
Digging, my small hands scrabbling the sand and harder dirt beneath to make
A hole large enough to bury the tall cans,
Pounding the sand to hold them down,
Wanting to hide the thing that made the monster come out.
The yells and…



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