Sour Keys

By Roshni Riar, Staff Writer

I’m staring at my Papa’s brown, wrinkled face

and the way his tears catch the warm,

afternoon light. His bike is lying behind him

on the grass, handlebars twisted

like my guts. Mom is crying

beside me and I don’t want to look

but I feel the force of her sobs reverberating

out onto the driveway. Papa’s feet shuffling

nervously on the porch, tiny flecks

of white paint chipping and turning to dust

beneath them. “I just wanted to drop

these off,” he says, voice thick

with remorse. I look at him, my father’s

father, and the tub of sour keys

from Giant Tiger shaking

in his grip. They haven’t seen each other

since the divorce. “I know you both like

these,” he offers. Mom reaches

for them. I stare at the proximity

of their hands and the salty sugar separating

them. Now, they’re hugging and crying,

and Papa is apologizing. He doesn’t say

what he’s sorry for but we know. Sour keys

drop to the porch. I make no move to catch

them, watching the candy roll

away from their intertwined limbs.