Angle

Roland Leach

I only knew an angle of my father. An acute angle. A tiny slice that changed from where you stood. I sometimes caught him in the corner of my eye and thought, that’s him. Getting out of his truck, dirty from work, pine resin on his arm hair, black oil across his face. Or in the Chrysler with the kids singing.

Never was. I tried to look in the wrong direction, hoping he had left something of himself. Just a trace, so had I been a sniffer-dog I could have tracked him. But he was light-footed, shadowless.

He came home every day but was never there, came home every day with his one trick of disappearing into light.