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.
