I locked my wife in the pantry under the stairs

folded and stored beside the cellar door, never given to him.

Dad reads them in the hospital with shaking hands.

I sit beside him and watch him meet the child I used to be.

A crayon fish.

A stick-figure family.

A Father’s Day card that says, I hope heaven has pancakes.

He presses that one to his chest and breaks.

I break with him.

Margaret is charged with continue reading …