He will teach me how to throw a baseball High up into raw autumn branches of the walnut tree, Knocking down fat ripe walnuts and smashing them open Letting them stain our hands. Later still, I will walk over this spot, away from the house, Carrying a battered airplane bag And he will watch me from the porch. The time ahead of us is in flux, expansive and bulging with every possible future, A drop of hot wax yet to be cooled and hardened into shape, Into small droplets of memories. The past is gone, But I remember how my father smells.
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