Directions

    Left,
    I said.
    Now forward. Step.
  

    He walked ahead of me,
    mask strapped across his eyes,
    following my words through the hall —
    or so I thought.
  

    We swapped.
    I put mine on.
    He took my hand.
  

    His voice arrived before each obstacle —
    a pause, a small pressure left,
    something passing close to my ear.
  

I stumbled twice. He didn't.

When we reached the end he laughed, already pleased with himself.

Were you scared, Dad?

    I thought about the years —
    the hand I always reached for first,
    the paths I chose for both of us,
    the way I walked ahead
    and called it love.
  

I reached over and lifted the mask from his eyes.
He hadn't needed it taken off. He'd forgotten it was there.

The mask we wear for love