An Autumn Walk

My dad is

by my side

once upon

a walk ago 

in Camelot.

The time: 

Autumn.

The soft, closely woven 

side of Twilight.

Setting: 

A New York Suburb

where a single

recalcitrant flower

squirms its way through the

frosty birth canal of 

of concrete.

Leaves leap

and twirl

around our boot tips

like a million

Jules Feiffer

ballerinas

Streetlights pop  on

in military procession

like they’re

yelling

surprise 

one

after

another.

We’re partners in silence mostly

Equals

My dad and I 

for thirty minutes or so

which feels longer

and so much more

special than an episode

of Superman 

which always left

me in 

towel caped

euphoria.

We make a

sworn to secrecy stop

at the amber lit candy store

Where a Three Musketeers bar

is shared

and 

and a sacred  oath 

is pledged

To not tell mom

Who is cooking dinner

while purring

in rollers

and robe

on a field of Mr. Cleaned linoleum

to a show tune

Like Happy Days are Here Again

Which is

a prayer

composed by 

our people

in the code

of survival.

Dad and I

talk

about important

things

A wartime summit

which is so rare

that it feels like

a holiday 

as the heavy-lidded

sky begins to

yawn and stretch

until it unspools

into a

giant 

black comforter 

quilted with 

hopeful

stars

as if it is tucking in

our conversation

into 

the permanent fairy tale of night.

I walk
slower

trying

to memorize

the moment of him:

his ear-covered knit hat

that covers

the formality of worry

and the surrender of hair

the baked in scoosh of Old Spice

the ski coat

with its

pockets of treasures

like Sen Sen (the “breath perfume”)

A go-to, you never know, nail clipper

and a monogrammed handkerchief

which was always predisposed to

gallantly rescue the next

tearful maiden in distress.

And now here I am

somewhere in the Flash Gordon

future

that once seemed 

as unreachable

as the moon

where I live now

spending most of my time

trying to catch

memories

in my starlit net

that flutter madly

like a kaleidoscope of

Hedylidae butterflies.

I cannot remember

if I held my dad’s hand then

But every year

as the leaves turn

gold 

and maple tree red

I close my eyes

And

I reach out.

And he takes it.