back | micro-prose
My father was standing on the porch,
barefoot, smoking a cigarette.
It could’ve been dawn. Or dusk.
The sky didn’t seem sure either.
“You left the door open,” I told him.
His back faced me.
“You always wanted it open.”
“For monsters." I said.
He exhaled.
“No," he said, "For me.”
I paused.
“What’s the difference?”
He turned to me.
Tapped ash from the end.
Quietly said,
“You flinched.
But you never ran.
Even now, you still
come looking for me."