Twenty-five years today since my father died. This has been kicking around in my head for a while now. It's why I need Heaven to exist.
I’ve been wanting to ask you something.
That evening, when I was twelve,
When Mom was at a meeting,
And you and I were the only ones home,
When happenstance brought us to the kitchen
Together, and you asked me to serve you
Ice cream—peach—
Because you couldn’t hold the container
And scoop at the same time with only
One good arm—
That evening, when I served you—
I remember you smiled as I scooped,
Maybe at my struggling effort—
The counter was still high for me, and
The ice cream was hard, kind of stale and icy—
When I served you ice cream—
I handed you the dish and left you
To eat it at the counter stool
By yourself in the dimly lit kitchen,
Your right arm hanging limp—
What I want to ask you—
Did I smile back?
