Pasta Night

Eating a plate of spaghetti,
I think of Dad
on pasta night,
wearing one of his plaid button-ups
with the small holes
from cigar ash,
spinning the spaghetti
onto his fork,
holding the sauce
that had simmered slowly
throughout the afternoon.
To block splatters
I place my hand flat
along the table edge,
open toward my chest,
like he would,
because at 45,
I still want to be like him,
so I can remember him.

(Jan 2026)