I don’t miss his callous
misdeeds.  Sad old
crank, he’s beyond
recall. Why do I live
backward with tattered
snapshot-stuffed shoeboxes & tawny
maps? I rummage, seeking
what? Am I happy
at 12 in my first
two-piece, a stretchy
black & white jersey with
sassy fringe draped
across my bust?  Sophomore,
I am hiding my D-cups under baggy
cardigans & blazers. I tied
them down with a long
swatch of cheesecloth. In the blue-lit
room where he died, decades
passed, my hair brindled
with gray. I held
his translucent hand as his moment
closed. I whispered, you
can let go, wishing
him no harm but feeling no
sadness. No one
should die
alone. I don’t
miss him.