Natalie Schriefer To the Father Figure Who Didn’t Stay It was a Christmas present, that orange racket, a gift from coach to student. “Hard work,” you said, “should be rewarded.” Too surprised to notice the paint scraped off the frame, I saw only your smile, which gave no hint that you’d leave just six months later, gone without a word, another chip in the head of my racket, my grip unravelling, fatigued, the tension in my strings too high. I look for you even now. I could find you online, maybe, but what would I say? And why, when I can write my own history for us, something less final than strings gone dead—something less final than the truth?
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