Dagwood at the Diner
His father built our house the British way, five windows aligned over a paneled door, parallel parlors flanking center stairs.
The French want you to go more than halfway. They will point to eau chaud rather than say en anglais, Enjoy your green tea, madame. They will leave The Journal de Montreal at your hotel door even when they know you don’t speak an effing word of French. They’ll expect you to believe that Dagwood of the comics talks this lyric lingo and asks, Quel est ton special du jour?
For our wedding, his father constructed chimney twins with pointed bricks, careful corners. Dentils perfect as baby teeth admired the symmetry.
Ann Curran Pittsburgh, PA
His father bestowed us a balanced home with fluted pilasters and furrowed fields, measured rooms, proportioned days. As far as we could see, his father gave to us. Then I gazed through bubbled glass (nine squares in every sash) and saw barefoot soldiers, rebel fires.
Jackie Craven Schenectady, NY
Number Two / 2013
His father gave us an ordered house with louvered shutters and iron latches. I hid insurgent voices like a chamber pot— ready beneath my bed.