Because Rob called me Numbnut,
and now no one does.
Because in therapy I learned the word infantilize,
and stopped asking if he was alright.
Because I’d rather recite his favorite paperbacks
as a requiem: Dune, Slaughterhouse-Five, Silent Spring.
Because he taught me how to give the finger when I was six
and ran when I taught mom.
Because I listened outside the bathroom as he cursed
Dad for buzz-cutting his curly hair.
Because he comforted my worry that his tetras were bored,
They have no memory, Numbnut,
each swim across the tank is a new ocean
and then I envied their easy forgetting.
Because his longest relationship
was with a club-footed lovebird he adored.
Because he said I couldn’t get good at Sudoku,
so he could beat me at something.
Because he could pinch open the beak of a baby robin
to feed it drops of milk.
Because he once touched me and I let him.
Because driving drunk and wrecking cars
was a form of apology for being a disappointing son.
Because I’d question the impossible physics of the hummingbird,
to spin the conversation away from his troubles.
Because at fifty-four he could still bruise the same spot
with a quick knuckle-punch to the arm.
Because we discussed the etymology of kerfuffle
but never mentioned emphysema.
Because the last time he lit a Marlboro to rest,
I bummed one and joined him.
Because they zipped him into a midnight body bag
and left without sirens.
Because he drove me around the city with the windows down
to point at all the cement he’d poured—
the post office flag pole, Kroger’s sidewalk—
what he liked about the job was leaving something permanent.
Because our last day together was at the aquarium
watching the sharks swim overhead,
nets of light reflecting on their underbellies.
Because he’d withdraw for months,
but I left him messages anyway
because he loved my dream of him.
