LILLIEFORS, James

Gone

“They couldn’t find anything,” my father says,

holding me with his hard blue eyes.

“They couldn’t?” I reply, not sure what he’s saying.

“They looked. The surgeon said it was all gone.”

“Well, no, sweetheart,” my stepmother interjects,

reaching for his hand in this sixth-floor hospital room.

But when she leaves his bedside several minutes later,

and we’re alone, he says it again:

“They couldn’t find anything.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“They looked. The surgeon said there was nothing there.

It was gone, just like that,” he adds, as if a miracle has taken place

at Sloan-Kettering, not a lobectomy.

He says it father to son, knowing

that I will not contradict him.

This is the third operation. He has come back from each

a little different. Now he stares at me like clear blue sky,

wanting only for me to nod before she returns.

I nod.