Crossword
Elizabeth Hill
Today, always in good humor, he’ll rise at 10:00 and lumber to the kitchen. He’ll fry two eggs, because
That’s how many he always has. Even his good eye can’t see the dirty plastic containers on the floor and
the silverware and dishes encrusted with grime.
He’ll work at the New York Times crossword from yesterday, grasping for words which used to come easily, until
I arrive, gray, but still someone’s daughter.
I hug him warmly. His body used to be too large to enfold.
We settle into his green living room, and I give him the pastrami sandwich that he loves. He eats it quickly, as if he hasn’t had food since my last visit.
I admire the faint shred of white hair at the top of his head, among the beloved red and brown patches.
How will it feel when I lose him, I wonder,
listening to his cherished Red Sox behind me in the study, looking at someone’s Memorial Order of Service
lying open on his coffee table. He has enough to provide for all his needs and wants. I should just be with him while I can.
The newspaper is spread over the dining room table like dirty snow. He ambles to a dining room chair and
picks up the crossword. The back of his ever-present tan pants droops like a deflated balloon.
His brown leather belt is cinched below his belly, appearing to keep him upright, as if hitched to a halyard. He concentrates on the clues. I always wonder whether, in these moments, he knows that I am here.
Then, not-quite medieval king, he says, eleven letters.
Oh, oh, oh! he says, I’ve got it! He looks down at the crossword and fills the answer in with delight, as he has for decades.
We are sailing in the boat he loved all these years. We know where we’re going.
We are going slowly, dawdling on the way.
After Sole Custody by Joe Millar
Elizabeth Hill
Today, always in good humor, he’ll rise at 10:00 and lumber to the kitchen. He’ll fry two eggs, because
That’s how many he always has. Even his good eye can’t see the dirty plastic containers on the floor and
the silverware and dishes encrusted with grime.
He’ll work at the New York Times crossword from yesterday, grasping for words which used to come easily, until
I arrive, gray, but still someone’s daughter.
I hug him warmly. His body used to be too large to enfold.
We settle into his green living room, and I give him the pastrami sandwich that he loves. He eats it quickly, as if he hasn’t had food since my last visit.
I admire the faint shred of white hair at the top of his head, among the beloved red and brown patches.
How will it feel when I lose him, I wonder,
listening to his cherished Red Sox behind me in the study, looking at someone’s Memorial Order of Service
lying open on his coffee table. He has enough to provide for all his needs and wants. I should just be with him while I can.
The newspaper is spread over the dining room table like dirty snow. He ambles to a dining room chair and
picks up the crossword. The back of his ever-present tan pants droops like a deflated balloon.
His brown leather belt is cinched below his belly, appearing to keep him upright, as if hitched to a halyard. He concentrates on the clues. I always wonder whether, in these moments, he knows that I am here.
Then, not-quite medieval king, he says, eleven letters.
Oh, oh, oh! he says, I’ve got it! He looks down at the crossword and fills the answer in with delight, as he has for decades.
We are sailing in the boat he loved all these years. We know where we’re going.
We are going slowly, dawdling on the way.
After Sole Custody by Joe Millar
