![]() You ran into her while drinking your coffee at a big, dumb Starbucks somewhere. “How did it go?” your father wants to know, because you’ve met someone. You are drunk on restaurant wine, wearing your darkest Levis and corduroy Date Blazer the man you call your father is wearing sleep pants and a Vikings sweatshirt and, upstairs in her white robe, your father’s new wife has just fallen asleep. ![]() He is behind a desk, holding a cordless, scratching his back. Your father is sitting in his den, dialing his phone. ![]() ![]() You are thirty-nine and a librarian and you are whispering your memories of Stefanie Robinson to the branches that hold you. You are high up in your father’s tree again, in front of his house, in the dark, watching his lit rooms like a stage play. ![]()
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