The last time I saw my daughter, it was a Saturday.
We carved pumpkins. We opened them up with tiny
knives as if we were surgeons. We weren't surgeons,
but we placed their insides in a bowl and pretended
to be. The goop glistened and gleamed. The house smelled
like pine cones, and fall, and wet leaves. She grew tired
of the orange mess, as three-year-olds do, so I popped
in Young Frankenstein. We sat on the couch close together,
but not touching. I spied on her out of the corner of my eye
and tried to spot the similarities: eyes, nose, chin, cheeks.
the sectional sofa
wide as the ocean