David Pendery

Father

Why do I continue expecting

Your measured step on the walk

A faint aroma or change

In the atmosphere

And then you

Framed in the doorway?

Father you would have said

That at this point

This is not wise of me.

Father, you would have said

To go on without you

Which is goddamned smug

But relevant

–a man’s view

Something of a necessary evil

And we abide.

But be aware Father

–never easy for a man

But be aware

That although we seem to be moving forward

Our progress is hindered

For you were our guide

Helmsman and even helm

And we never asked or wished for you to leave

But leave you did

And now I think I understand

That it was something of a necessary evil.

The Story

I knew that there was a story in the bronze-colored girl's stepping from behind a tree and into my path that sunny day in February in Golden Gate Park. Anyone could have seen that though. I mean anyone.

Consider this: I'm riding my bicycle through the park and it's a beautiful day. Sun's smiling, sky's friendly, I have no cares. I'm pedaling slowly, threading my way through tapestry crowds, warming up for a good, hard ride.

Ahead of me, just before the handball courts, there's a turn in the path. There, from behind a mossy eucalyptus tree steps a bronze-colored girl, about eight years of age. She has sad eyes and hair black and shiny as a panther's. In her hands she holds a small, orange plastic bowl and a yellow colander. Without hesitating—you know how bold children can be—her head turns, tilts back, her eyes meet mine and she asks:

"Have you seen any butterflies today?"

I paused and turned on my bicycle. I looked back toward her. "No," I told her. "I'm sorry,

I haven't." She gazed at me blankly, nodded slightly, and then turned and walked away. I looked at her small back, her pretty figure, the plastic kitchen utensils in her hands. Then I turned and rode on.

Now do you see my point, about the story? The story is ours. It is yours, it is mine. It is the bronze-colored girl's. We have all been twilled into a gentle fabric that can be as strong as steel mail or as fine as lace. The choice is ours.

She was a bronze-colored girl, about eight. She wore a plaid skirt, a sleeveless blouse, and her arms were dirty and scratched. Her feet were bare.

In her hands she held an orange plastic bowl and a yellow colander. She had pretty teeth, hair like a panther's, and sad sparkling eyes. I never found out her story, but there was one there, all right.

Anyone could have seen that.