My Cardboard Balcony

Our World by Belinda Roddie Bake me some gingerbread in the briars of October, and I'll be a very happy stranger chewing on candy corn during Christmas Eve. Ice cream sandwiches are for winter, and hot soup's for summer's panic attacks. Pop our sins back into the oven: They're still fresh. We'll eat them after dark.

Why is it that we dread the day we see our fathers' ghosts again? They all gather in the same beer hall to drink and tell bad jokes and stories. I know one friend whose father fell from the roof one night while he was inebriated by cider and whiskey and whimsical dreams. I thought maybe that the dreams hit him harder than the alcohol ever did. Perhaps it's better to close the door and have our second round at another pub.