The Air Exchange

In the Winter months, when even the Sun goes to bed early

I'd find my bones clattering about

in hopes of finding some Summer heat.

A heat, that when paired with the coming and going of the wind,

would leave all of us there still, and silent.

The same heat that left small dark spots on my shoulders

as I paraded around the driveway

as a barefoot child.

When Dad would open our front door

and step into our brick home after returning from a trip

to New York, Philadelphia, or Phoenix 

the air would exchange.

Heat in.

Air out.

Breathing.

His pressed white shirt would radiate a starch white

that would overthrow the chandelier

if just momentarily.

Standing  in the foyer,

I remember him like this the most-

black pants, black tie-

Captains hat.

And the starched white shirts.

And upon his return, he would drink coffee

and sit in the kitchen, and talk to me.

And I am thankful.

That I grew up in the kitchen of a brick colonial house.

A fat little boy, my father jested me hard.

And later, as a ragged, skinny, depleting teen,

he came to me rarely with fatherly advice.

I remember one instance, a changing of guard,

where I was on again about my state of being “grown”.

And he told me this-

“You know how you know I'm a grown man Zac?,

because I've never had to tell you”

I spent a lot of time at the Snipes' home,

their son two or three years my senior, Bailey,

was mean to me.

But he lived close, so we were friends.

Funny how that goes.

The foyer was at the foot of the stair.

Id see Dad's white Chrysler pull up the drive

and casually head to the platform at the turn in the stairs

so I could see the heat move in with the door handle.

At Baileys we were boys in the South,

and we were often unsupervised.

Scars on our hands from a window deicing spray-can

that exploded more than expected.

Stealing cigarettes, chewing tobacco.

I was always barefoot when Dad would arrive,

which made him even taller,

tho now he has me by only a thin inch.

He's not aging much, the same haircut, mustache.

The same crooked tip of his nose.

Same pilots cap.

In the summer, that brass door handle

would get so hot it would burn my hands.

We'd use the end of our t-shirts to gain entry.

Dad never mentioned it.

Now, the boy from down the street (he had worlds on a string)

after a series of mishaps,

is somewhere in Texas.

(Perhaps smoking methamphetamine.)

Dad still comes home and heads to the kitchen

for his coffee.

Half decaf, half regular.

“Half-Caf” as he calls it.

It seems I am lucky.

To have a father like I do.