The Game His Father Played

As we played circle tag in the
freshly fallen snow,
our hot breath puffed into
thin clouds before our faces.
My father.s laugh bellowed,
his feet flew out from under him
as he barreled .round the corner.
We always chased him first.

This was, of course,
before the doctors and the tests
and the drugs that number a dozen.
Before he quit work to stay home
And watch years-old reruns.
Before my young father
became an old man
whose hands shake.