2 ½.

(not 2, not 3)

at 2 ½ glasses

a tender window

creeps open

shining light

on closely held thoughts;

my father reveals himself

letting vulnerable center

sneak out from

the precarious gap

between pane and sash

at precisely

2 ½.

at 3

the window snaps shut

with a bang

that rattles as he

storms out of the room.

tonight

at 2 ½ glasses,

my father

is puzzling about his father

(a man who had no such windows

at any number)

i see his confusing

swiss-cheesy, mostly missing-pieced effect

and i have to wonder

how my father

ever found his face at all.

i allow my armor

to nudge to the side

as compassion

surrounds my being

and we sit

together

in all that vagueness;

as 3 comes, and the window slams shut

i respect the distance

and quietly

lift my glass

in honor of my father.