My favorite memory of my father

was watching him lean over our canary yellow Chrysler

with a soft cloth, wiping with wax ‘till it shone.

I remember it like a faded photograph.

His white hair blending in with the now-dull yellow of the car.

The winter sky overcast, making the picture too bright,

washing him out.

Then the snowflakes fell, and he looked up, alone.

Let each snowflake fall on his glasses, his nose,

his tongue now stuck out, a plate for each individual flake.

The car sparkled behind him, accented by silver chrome.

It was how he lived, eating the world piece by piece.

Unique as each of its points.

Had he known I was watching he would have frowned,

called the snow a nuisance. Pretend what was happening

wasn't magic, but an ordinary day.