[ . . . testify . . . . ]
I only know I love him because of this memory:
I was witness to my father in the turn.
He’d been a ghost til then, hardened by military muscle
and work and cigarette smoke, a history marked
by his own father’s flying hands,
the same man who brought my brothers and I sweets and coins,
the same who took us crabbing and taught us
how to crack a crab leg and that the mustard tasted good.
Grandpa was soft while sober and when drunk,
wrathful as the Old Testament.
*
It was in that moment I saw him, no longer fuzzy
like the face from a dream that evaporates with sunlight.
I could see we had the same nose, the same
tendency for a dry and cracking lower lip.
He was soft like a child,
the ailing parts of his life beading
across his face, raining from his head.
There was a tension in his face like he was crying
or shitting.
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Maybe the Body by Asa Drake - April 10, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Maybe the Body by Asa Drake - April 9, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Maybe the Body by Asa Drake - April 8, 2026
