Ja-Fraulein

My father was there, and then he wasn't. I still dream about it, sometimes, when the nights grow warm in the late spring. My mother's hand is white, clenched hard around my own. She went later, in a different way. Not better, but different. Who knows, maybe she thought it was worse. I don't remember his face. I was too small. I remember his legs, the texture of his pants, the crook of his neck when he would lift me in his arms. He was a quiet man, and strong. It's hard to speak of the time before. When you tell a true story well, you become your old self for awhile. Bad enough to be that person once. I prefer happier stories, most days. Sto