And We Never Spoke of It

Gail Martin

When my dad quit smoking for the second time,

he switched from Luckys to Salems, green carton

tucked in the glove box of his first Buick, vibrating

in the dark like a lie. I hunted for them, searching

for signs of trespass in him, although in our church

we said debts when we prayed. He made a wrong turn

on our only family camping trip, threw it in reverse

and jackknifed the pop-up camper into the side

of the station wagon. Not a man to dwell on error,

he was inclined to forget any load he was hauling.

Decades later at Kmart, he put a can of paint

in the rack to shake it and failed to lock it in.

Power has its own logic, doesn’t care who uses it.

The can flew off, lid popped open, white paint flying

up and down that aisle. He never hesitated, turned

and strolled out of the store. I followed him.