Five Weeks Before I Left That House Lisa Baird

Five Weeks Before I Left That House Lisa Baird

The first and only time my father apologized to me, he entered my room without knocking, sat on my bed—didn’t ask—dropped his Sorry onto the floor like something heavy no one could be bothered to bury.

We stared at it, at the carpet, at the way beige fades to grey after we’ve walked on it for years.

I remember looking up, my wooden eyes tracking over his face finding nowhere to land. His mouth: nineteen years of drought, coughing up dead fish for my lap.

His mother had mostly cured him of a bad stutter as a child sitting by his bed at night, saying to his sleep, You speak well. You speak so, so well. I like to think that she spoke it as a prayer. That there were times when he knew he was loved.

I wonder now if he’d rehearsed beforehand, if he was trying to say I l-love you before I was gone.