Lyn Lifshin

would be coming back from some war, sending back stuffed birds or handkerchiefs in navy blue with Love painted on it. Some sent telegrams for birthdays, the pastel letters like jewels. The magazines were full of fathers who were doing what had to be done, were serving, were brave. Someone yelped there’d be confetti in the streets, maybe no school. That soon we’d have bananas. My father sat in the grey chair, war after war, hardly said a word. I wished he had gone away with the others so maybe he would be coming back to us