My father lays on 

his leather 

recliner crunching 

on pistachios, the  

shells dropped into 

a red solo  

cup, while I rest 

my head on 

his chest, his  

breathing rhythmic and 

constant and my 

little body tries to  

match his 

breathing with my 

own. I start 

to wonder if it 

is possible to  

make my breath smell 

of beer too. 

 

I’m older now and 

my father sits on 

the other end of 

our couch eating a 

health bar that 

his wife bought 

for our pantry and 

his breathing is  

quieter and I  

can’t match his 

breathing because I 

can hardly understand 

it. It doesn’t 

 

smell of beer and I 

want to bring it back 

so we can match. This 

 

is our relationship.  

My breathing trying  

to match his. 

I’m losing my breath trying.