He always wore a mustache.

I used to inhale dreams with peaches
And exhale sonatas
On tuesdays.

At nigbt dad carried my hands
And tied them up in a bow
So i was carrying his gift

"Vision."

I saw it with those hands,
My eyes really liked the taste

It made me smile.
 Smile.
 Smile.

When i grew up i would be like him
My husband would be too--
He would sing tenor and
his hands would find tunes on the piano, name them after me and
be my soccer coach.

The future would taste like smoothie and grow like the tomatoes we planted in our garden
so we'd harvest it in colanders.

We were open, unrestricted circles of potential;
Dad drew it out on whiteboards to prove it to us.

and it was happy.
Because 4 words he didn't speak out loud
were always in my dreams, I traced them there, with my toes, in the sand:
I am good enough.

Sometimes its still hard to treat him like a friend, and I'd like to.

words are sometimes hard to push into motion through the air,

to let them

find the puzzle of bridges

over these multi-dimensional gaps

separating (even the) people (who love) from each other.

but my life acknowledges to his that his dreams fed me until I grew obesely idealistic

and threatened to smile too hard.

'thanks dad' is a bigger feeling than this keyboard can touch. 

I'm waiting for a typewriter and some jazz. 

some peach jam and cheese. 

He'd like that.

everett mills.