My Father and I

My father and I only speak at sunset, and although his eyes are drawn to the models in his hands, I know his attention is solely on me. Every day, he asks me if I have anything I want to tell him, as if expecting some cloying emotional anecdote to immediately flow forth. I try to force the words forward, my eyes locked on the back of his head, mouth forming soundless syllables. When the sun finally dips beneath the horizon, he turns to me, with nothing but a smile to offer, and I am content to give him the same.

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