Strata
You don’t understand, he says, again,from the backseat of the car, my son,
who only months ago, could not fallasleep before whispering, first,
some secret in my ear. When I lookin the rearview, he turns toward peaks
in the distance, and when I ask him toexplain, shaking his head, he sighs as if
it isn’t worth the trouble. I hadthe same words for my father, and one day,
cursing, pushed him through the doorwaywith the full strength of the body I had
grown into. At forty-five, he couldhave pinned me to the wall, but at
what cost? It’s a story we don’t liketo tell, though my son and I ride between
the rocky hillsides in silence untilhe asks how long it takes to get
there, an apology in the…