by J. Clifford Milligan
The man looked like my father,
silver-bearded serious with
cigarette smoke rising
toward squinting eyes.
I was behind him in traffic,
stop-and-going
through construction cones.
I was watching him in his side mirror
and imagined my father still alive,
sitting in traffic like this
and I got out of my car
and approached his window . . .
He would say,
Hey big guy, what are you doing here?
Come on, get in
and I would.
He would slap my leg
and tell me to buckle up.
And off we’d drive together
avoiding the cones and
riding up the shoulder,
then down a side road,
a detour only he knew.
He’d tell me he was fine.
That being dead was fine.
Maybe we should stop for lunch,
I know this diner, he would say.
We’d park and walk in,
get seated by the waitress.
I’d apologize, while browsing the menu,
for not being there enough
while his mind disappeared,
for not helping Mom more.
He’d forgive me, of course,
Life is hard. We all do our best,
and then he’d point out
the Everything French Fries.
These are great, he’d say,
we should get some,
and we would.
We’d sit together eating
and talking for a while,
until it was time
for him to go again.
And we’d stand in the parking lot
saying goodbye,
he would crush me in a hug
like when I was a boy,
and this time I’d tell him I loved him.
And then he’d be gone
again
just like that,
and I’d be back in traffic,
still sitting still, idling,
looking in mirrors, waiting,
in a long line
for a sign
from someone up ahead
for us to move on.
© 2026 J. Clifford Milligan All rights reserved.
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