No regrets

My father and I walk along Snake Trail Canal,
he landed a few days ago with my mom,
both rattled by failing memories,
endured on those long flights from Delhi to Miami, aging bodies scrambled from the crack in distance and time.

My father talks about time and how much of it has passed
and how he could have used it gracefully
He says he is living on borrowed time,
his “quota is over.”

I listen.
My father regrets many things.
I search for the same feeling —
that uneasy bitter weight
under the throat.

Instead, I find the weightless certainty
that our separation,
my necessary fatherless journey,
my queerness, my own flight
was just so,
just right.

Here we are
under dappled light,
wet tree roots like fingers
pluck the sun’s glimmer
from the canal’s dark water,
I turn his collar down and he flicks his
hand across one shoulder
as if to unburden himself.

my arm rests around him as we gaze into everyday oblivion,
muscovy ducks shuffling
around our feet.

afternoon joggers scuttling by

There is nothing I can say to soothe him
take on that well-worn role of the comforter
the caretaker, just a child who learned how to survive
using hands and words and mind to fix, to carry
that which was not mine.

My father and I haven’t spoken for a long time, and now it doesn’t matter for how long.
when I was younger, I would go years without hearing his voice
so I am used to it and manage my time as reflection and respite
from being what I am not with him.

But that day when the water, the trees,
sky and tiny creatures of the world
surrounded our insignificance,
I felt a hidden joy
the pleasure of finding him again,
decades later,
as I am

as I always want to be
whole, true and tender.

Anki Sinha