of wallets and firearms

Sit he said. I did as I was told. My father was a man of few words and believe me, you wanted it that way. Eat. You and I. This is what we are going to do. I started to speak, which he stopped with a look. Then, just the sound of our knifes and forks sounding much louder than I knew they were. He ate slowly. Hot sauce on everything. A lifetime of smoking had destroyed his taste-buds. No expression on his face one way or the other. When we finished, he wiped his mouth.
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Get a book he said. I did. Turn to any page. Read. As I did his eyes looked up. From time to time he would stop me. What does that mean he would say. Why that word. Why there. And I wondered if the author put as much thought into the text as my father's exegesis rung from it.
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Every morning was the same. I never chose the food. He never the book. And in this way we navigated our days.
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He is gone now. The chair opposite me is empty. I read all the same. The questions still as clear in my ear as once they were, as once the knife and fork. And I make my own breakfast; with a dog lying on the floor watching every move I make.
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I can't prove it, but I don't think she is the only one watching.

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My father had one thing I've never had--a wallet. It was black leather, worn smooth and thick as a hamburger. No credit cards in those days. A wallet had cash and a driver's license. And for whatever reason, my father always carried a lot of cash, mostly twenties, which I always found just a little strange because my father never spent any money. Never really went anywhere either.
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When you wanted something, he would say Go get my wallet. You were never allowed to open it. Instead, you carried it to him and he would open it, his thumb on the bills as if counting them again, making sure they were all there. Then he would pull out what you needed, give you back the wallet and tell you to return it to the same place. An emphasis in his gravelly voice. This was no idle command.
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Even today I can't explain it. But that ritual meant something to him. He didn't go to church or believe in God, but he believed in the wallet. I used to watch him come home from work. He would always pull out his bulging wallet and lay it on the nightstand. He would do it like a firearm. I know this because we used to hunt. And he always carried a pistol on his hip--leather holster cocked like he knew how to wear it. When we got back to the truck, he would unbuckle the holster and lay the pistol on the dash, so that it would be in sight. And we would drive home this way.
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The way he placed that holster, that pistol on the dash was the exact same way he placed his wallet on the nightstand.