I last had a home, six miles south of charlotte, in 2014 but three years later my father came around to see me in Ohio and I drove listening to his old motown classics cd. We met at port huron on the lake edge of Erie County as if to remind me of days spent with still-blood trout pressed hard to my palm between my two thin knees as I scaled them down with a fine thistle toothbrush. One burly man with a scar above his highest pointer finger joint deveined grass shrimp with a takeout chopstick, just how I used to do all wrong and my father would correct me with the slap of a butcher knife’s blunt side against my cheek belly. By noon men shuffled off the harbor the marsh laden squish of their wading boots echo-ing the memory of shoes hitting porchwood on the way into an old neighbor’s house, and my father and I were eating french fries out of a peanut oil soaked white paper cup. some winds exhale, move across stale fields as pillars cast beating red light across corn stalks the way pine warblers throw their voices in the carolinas. A lone deer licks tree bark, and I realize I am born of two houses: the one where my mother’s last breath passes and the house I left my father in, to just one day without me looking, like both hands over my eyes as being led into the room where he and all the people I love are singing happy birthday, left him to die where I couldn’t see. But I can see him now, barely, blending into the wharfmen in long tread pants and a maroon thermal, the sun catching red in his new goatee, smiling. I won’t look away for awhile. I let what little words floating in these brine airs between us be sweet. I left for a reason. Sometimes it's so simple I feel my blood as it thins.

ERINTRUDE PIETA lives in Ohio with her sister and their five snapping turtles.