MY FATHER’S: black leather folded and opened so many times over the years that the places it folded were white. The edges were frayed. It was narrow. He was a small man and his narrow black leather one looked small even in his hands. He was small but he seemed big. As a little boy I stood beside him at hardware store checkout counters looking up at him pulling it from his back pocket and opening it for the stranger behind the register. And I remember in those times the weight that came down from him onto me, crushing me who was shy and did not want to see because it was not mine to see—my father showed me nothing of what was inside until the day it all came exploding out in blood and bones and fire. I did not want to see but at the same time I did want to, very much, because he was my father and it was mine to see