Rose Garden Lane

by Kyle Liang

December 24th, 2017

This morning, I helped my father remove leaf carcasses
from his tenant’s gutter and imagined him slipping
off the ladder I was told to hold. A part of me wants to believe
that he would scream but I know he wouldn’t. I know
his body would strike the earth like a fist. His last words being Don’t let go
of this.
As I bring the shower to a boil and begin to undress,
brick by brick, I try to remind myself that
asking him every day if he needs help
with the houses won’t stop his spine
from fusing, or keep him from missing
the discos he spent his youth in, but I
do it anyway. I repeat to myself that
standing in the shower for an hour won’t
do those things either,
but I do that too.