In the morning, my father is humming at the table,
but it’s not about the big game.
Instead I see his open prayer book.
Maybe we will go to services today.
It feels like we should go.
I want a chance to atone, to make things right,
to start again.
I sit down across from him.
He’s holding a photo in his hand.
It’s the three of us, standing at Fort Point
beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.
The sun is shining, the water is bright blue behind the red bridge.
He looks up at me,
wet eyes and scraggly beard,
like he’s been stuck thinking for days.
I’m sorry, Etan.
And he takes my hand.
I’m doing my best. I promise.
One day soon we will go back.
I believe him.