My father takes me to hockey games,
his attempt to cement father/daughter bonding.
Ever since the divorce – the power play he calls it –
he feels he has been shut out of my life
by my mother, the goalie, who protects me like the net.
“How’s school?” he asks.
“School’s good,” I say,
thankfully followed by giant men crashing into the boards.
“I’m okay,” I say,
thankfully followed by the horn sounding the end of the period.
“I’ll get some hot dogs,” he says. “You want?”
“Okay,” I say. “That sounds good.”
“You seeing someone these days?”
“Careful, Dad, you’re skating on thin ice here.”
He groans and goes for the refreshments.
In the last period our team scores and wins.
We slap high fives, but say nothing.
Our conversations, like a hockey puck,
just seem to skim the surface.