unceremoniously sent off by the daughter he barely recognized in his state of intoxication. Resigned, I retreated to my room, spending hours perfecting the contents of each letter, the monotony of ritual taking my mind off the glass criminals who had stolen my father out from under me. —
Plugged In, Francesca Postigo ’22, digital
The night before his surgery songs wafted through the open blinds of my room, prompting me to rouse myself from writing and tentatively
peer outside. He danced: drunk, delirious, free, his torso swaying to the drawn out notes. Arms waving about, a liquor bottle in his left hand lazily spritzed liquid across the porch. As he spun about in tempo he caught me peeping, and motioned for me to join him with a droopy smile. The cold concrete stung the soles of my feet as I stepped onto the patio to face him. He said nothing, but gently grabbed my hand and led me in a dance. I closed my eyes, the salt-filled air of the coast gently washing through
36
mosaic
