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Dolphins Swimming In Havana Harbor

David J. Thompson

My father shuffled to the dinette table
with two bottles of Budweiser.
He handed one to me, took out
a pack of Luckies, and proceeded
to light one up. I know things
have never been good between us,
he said, and I’m not sure how much time
I’ve got left, so I just wanted to explain
something to you. OK, I said, then
took a long drink of beer. Your mother,
as you know, he explained, walked
into the surf at Coney Island a few months
after you were born and was never seen again.
He took a long drag on his cigarette, told me
after that he didn’t think he could raise me
on his own; that’s why he sent me to live
with mom’s parents upstate. I said,
That’s fine, Pop. I understand. No worries.
He stubbed out the cigarette, sat back
in his chair, looked away out the window.
Any-hoo, he said clasping his fingers together,
years later I got a postcard of dolphins swimming
in Havana harbor. It was in your mother’s handwriting,
but it was in Spanish, so I don’t know what it said.
I thought about asking one of the Puerto Ricans
at work to translate it for me, but then I thought,
Fuck, who am I kidding? I’m never leaving Brooklyn
to look for that crazy bitch, so I threw it out.
I slapped my palm hard on the table, stood up,
and yelled, You mean my mom might still be alive?
Yeah, he answered while taking out another cigarette,
she always was a helluva swimmer.

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