—IF THERE’S SILVER IN MY EYES, I’LL BE FINE, THAT’S JUST THE MOONLIGHT

 

Grease

Though he scrubbed them with Ajax soap after coming home from the garage, looking like a defeated bear in overalls, my father’s hands were always grease stained—charcoal nails, bits of ebony swirls like a road turning nowhere inside the whorls—even on the day he finally shot the dog because it barked too much, even on the day he gave my baby sis away, there was grease.