and thinking about my father, and his twisted gnarled hands

and the way he sways back and forth while he talks, because sitting in one place is physically painful for him

and remembering a time that neither my sister nor my brother remember

sitting on my parents' bed with them and watching tv

my father laying on his stomach, he would rest his chin on the heel of his palm and his fingers on his upper lip

and to my 4 yr old mind it looked like his mouth was in jail

and his wild curly hair which is softer than any hair i have ever touched

and pulling on his beard, and how he would hold me in his lap

and later, how tired his eyes would look behind their frames

and always being so proud to have him come in and talk about being a pediatrician when it was career week in elementary school

and always wanting to ask him, as if i was not his daughter, "what does your family think about you being gone so much?"

but never having the nerve

and about when i first left home, talking to him from my room, with no bed, but with cds lining the walls

and laying on my stomach, while we talked

my chin in my hand, my fingers resting on my upper lip

as if my mouth was in jail

listening to him talk and talk and talk

and listening to him tell me that it was his relationship with me that taught him, finally, how to love

and not being able to talk much after that, because i forgot how

but mostly about how his face gets so still when he is listening to music he loves

and the way he hums off-tune

and how once he tried to explain to me that when i was sitting in the car, watching the moon through trees and over powerlines and behind all the churches with their tall crosses

it wasn't the moon following us