Dad’s got a mind like the machines he works on
His psoriasis-beaten hands, still tough as they’ve always had to be
I come home to, “How’s your car?” and, “Do you need money?”
His jackets smell of oil and metal shavings and sometimes they hide splinters
His laugh is contagious and it mostly ignites from one of his own slightly comical remarks,
and it makes his belly move up and down like a boat on a lake during a storm
It reminds me of when I used to curl up for a nap on that pillowy tummy
and I’d bob up and down as he breathed

Mom doesn’t stop taking care of people even once she’s left the hospital
She can tell something’s wrong before I know it, myself
Her blue scrubs are her superhero costume,
and her other clothes are just a disguise
Her hugs make me miss her, somehow,
even though we’re as close as we can get
Something about her arms feels like being curled up in an afghan
and looking outside on a bleak and frore January night - Safe
They smell like every comforted cry and sympathetic word of my entire life;
Like home