Gabriella Tucciarone

Smith College, Northampton, MA, USA

My dad is an old man but he is not any old man he is mine, My dad is a mild man, my dad is a mild old man but he is my mild old man. I carry those words “my old man” in my pocket. I finally have an old man! I will host old man parties in old nightclubs with old people with old topics and old breaths and rusty voices that are chipped from the years. I cannot wait to hear all the old man’s stories with other old people and maybe old people will talk to new people and new people will talk to old people and there will be a mix of people especially old people. The guest list will include droopy ears and stretched-out faces and baggy clothing only. These old man parties with be home to lots of wood and worn-out leather couches and withering cigars and he and I will host these parties in the indent of my forehead, they will all fit, inside the folds, inside my small wrinkles will be decks of cards and old man games will be shuffled. It will be warm and coming apart - the paint will be chipping off the walls but the dim lights will cover all the eroded things and claw-footed furniture will crawl up and down the linoleum-covered floor. There will be scratch marks draping across the floor. Everyone and everything will be eroded together. It will be the first old man party my dad will attend. I will watch from afar. But I cannot wait to see other old people talking to my old man. I will look through the window hosting my own old man party for my old man. And he will be so excited to talk about the weather.