My Father in the Snow

He takes me on the train (just me! the city!), his annual trip to buy new music. In the twilit lot
two miles from home, our car will not start as heavy snow falls. No pay phone to call a taxi or
my mother (making supper for siblings, no car anyway). My father considers, decides we’ll
walk, I’m a big girl, we have boots and hats, we’ll surely be fine. My fault-finding father,
confident in me, another treat for my ten year old self. Both nearsighted, we soon see little with
snow-covered glasses, put them in our pockets. Walking this way an odd blurry freedom, my
exposed eyelids unaccustomed to weather. Under a streetlamp, my father’s face: naked, strange,
some protection gone. His brows and lashes sparkle with flakes. Undefended, he gathers beauty.