When I drove to Spokane to see my dad
the smoke from the wildfires
was as acrid and thick as the clouds
the Angry make on the third
cornice of Purgatory. I couldn’t see
a thing until I drove away,
back down the gorge and along the river,
where the air was fresh
and the leaves barely turning.
I will never forgive you, he said as I left,
in his dementia. He was
hugging me in the carport. I could hear
his hearing aid trilling.
But I knew what he meant: forget you.