Holding East

Holding East
Ruth Awad

I’d never seen my father on his knees except
during his daily prayers, his head to the rug
like a wild dog nosing for foodscraps, hunting
down God, until my mother stuffed her suitcase
full of socks and scrubs, pant leg caught in the lip.
From the hallway I watched my life unclasp:
my father shrouded in his flannel robe as my mother
loomed for a moment then stormed
around the bedroom, gathering her things.

Night swept in like curtains slowly closing.
No light from the stars, useless as snuffed candles.
My father paced the garden, past the wood violet
blooming lavender along the path, past lilacs
overtaking the fence. When he came back inside,
he scooped me in his arms and out to the car.
“A night-ride,” he said, but we circled the town
down side streets and houses of friends, looking
for her. I counted streetlamps that glowed
like little moons over us, my head pressed
against the glass blurred by my breath as we drove
through the night-fog, my father holding east.