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David Janey
little things you remember
In my head I still hear the tune my dad whistled
every night walking from his car to our front door
announcing his arrival, announcing the end of his
workday, announcing the start of our evening.
I remember how he opened mail tearing a quarter
inch off the edge of the envelope at the end. I always
wondered why he tore along the short edge and not
along the long edge. I still wonder why.
In the days before seat belts, sometimes if he had
to brake unexpectedly, the strength of his reflex-reach
across to my chest pinned me safely in my passenger
seat; his love took my breath away.