By Roshni Riar, Staff Writer
Iâm staring at my Papaâs 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 donât want to look
but I feel the force of her sobs reverberating
out onto the driveway. Papaâs feet shuffling
nervously on the porch, tiny flecks
of white paint chipping and turning to dust
beneath them. âI just wanted to drop
these off,â he says, voice thick
with remorse. I look at him, my fatherâs
father, and the tub of sour keys
from Giant Tiger shaking
in his grip. They havenât seen each other
since the divorce. âI know you both like
these,â he offers. Mom reaches
for them. I stare at the proximity
of their hands and the salty sugar separating
them. Now, theyâre hugging and crying,
and Papa is apologizing. He doesnât say
what heâs 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.
