I grew up in the hallways of my father's anger,
his mood a thermostat nobody could regulate.
We blistered in the heat of his rages,
we shivered in the absences of his affection;
we breathed as softly as possible in between.

He filled entire rooms with his grievances,
displayed trophies of his self-importance
on every shelf. We sat on sofas of his
expectations, and hung portraits of our
obedience on the walls: one big, happy,

barely-breathing family, everybody looking
for a way out. My brothers and I grew into
adulthood, and my stepmother grew
a pancreatic tumor, so my father is alone now:
an old man with old ghosts, frequently getting

lost in the hallways that used to frighten us.
I do not visit very often, and when I do, I hold
my breath and hover over the couch cushions,
refusing to sink into the crater of his complaint.
I do not offer forgiveness and he doesn't ask,

and I do not apologize for the distance between us.