Dad is a shiver in the air. Dad is see-through. Dad’s voice is a hum. “I am so sorry I couldn’t do it for longer, sweetheart. I am so sorry I didn’t stay. I wish I could explain it—if there was a way—but maybe there isn’t a way or a why. If I could, I’d show you, I wish—” Dad leans forward. He picks up my hand, his hand/my hand; we are figments, fragments. Dad is a measurement of love.
