Telling My Father
by James Crews
I found him on the porch that morning, sipping cold coffee, watching a crow dip down from the power line into the pile of black bags stuffed in the dumpster where he pecked and snagged a can tab, then carried it off, clamped in his beak like the key to a room only he knew about. My father turned to me then, taking in the reek of my smoke, traces of last night’s eyeliner I decided not to wipe off this time. Out late was all he said. And then smiled, rubbing the small of my back through the robe for a while, before heading inside, letting the storm door click shut behind him. Later, when I stepped into the kitchen, I saw it waiting there on the table—a glass of orange juice he had poured for me and left sweating in a patch of sunlight so bright I couldn’t touch it at first.
