Three cents a day,
The memory of another remains.
His folded flag, his folded hat, his folded letters.
Our folded clothing, along the walls.

We never did unfold the clothes.
Only once did his flag leave its box, his hat.
Only once was it placed into glass.
For her, and only her.
For he only did exist in her world.
And her world alone.
His letters seized, as his love.


One cent a day.
His scent no longer lingers.
Only memories of rocket-rides in our purple chair gather.
Who is this man?
Who has he created in me?
I would say void, but no.
That word has no meaning.
For if it did, would it really be as it says?
The word is my father.
Empty, and meaningful.
Yet if its meaning is spoken, all purpose of the word is lost.


Now I unfold this box of clothes.
And remember his scent, the rocket-rides, the play-dough grapes.
I recall his balding head.
His slender, calloused hand.
As it slid the dollar bill into my palm for a treat.
Turning back I see him board the plane.
A trail of his scent behind him.