My Dad asks, “Where are you going?”

My Dad asks, “Where are you going?” When I was ten, the answer was “gonna ride my bike, Dad.” When I was 20, this question was left on voicemail in my apartment in New Hampshire. The answer was, “to a party, to class, for a hike up Mt. Monadnock,” but I rarely called back. I’m sorry, Dad. When I was 25, I didn’t know where I was going. When I got there, I wouldn’t have told a soul what I’d seen. When I was 30, the answer was, work, then school, then work, then school, then … READ FULL POEM

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