The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: A Story Interrupted by Connie Soper

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Digging for France

In this photo, I am almost six. My father
tells me if I dig deep enough, I will find
France. I shovel and scrape with my hands
while the wet sand collapses in on itself.
As usual, he is distracted, pulling at that pipe
the way he always did, gazing towards the Pacific,
hand angled over his brow as if to salute
some far off place in the distance. Even now,
I wonder what it was he saw.
Behind us sky, seagulls, and sand.
My little gray sturdy brother
busy with his toy cars while I am digging
for France. With my plastic shovel and pail
I scoop my way through the core
of Oregon. I want to be sucked
into the wet hole and pulled out
the other side into a country
of light and long loaves of bread.
It’s not here, it’s not here, I scream
from that sorry ditch as the muck sticks
to my hair, eyelids and teeth.
My father pulls me onto his lap
and wraps me in a sweater smelling faintly
of him, of stale tobacco and wet collie.
And although he’s never been there,
he teaches me words I need to know:
Enfant, rouge, pain au chocolat.

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