During the second hour, with the sun still
stuck in the sky, my father and I hold the cross-
bar of our swing set above us as he tightens
a screw. Then, our arms still extended above
us, he hands the tool to me and I try to make
my side mirror his. We have done this for decades,
the span of me. The swing set began as a lot
of pieces, which he equates with quality, compared
to something already built that can unfold
and crumble on a whim. I once was many
pieces. My father became sharper
with a wrench or switch. He says they don’t
build things to stay anymore and I know he is
apologizing for how he left our home, built one
without us. Once my side is tightened, we let go
of the swing set to stand on its own, a bar above
our heads, steady as a firm hand. He reaches out
for the tool, and I know I should call more
often, that I have built a house between
us and filled it with years. We begin to hang
the swings, the plastic horse, the slide, green
and wavy extending its new song into the grass.
He comments on how I’ve taken care of the yard
and he understands I won’t let him die alone.