His Masterpiece.

"Are you interested in pictures?" he asked
after catching me staring at the wall
of his apartment which he'd plastered
with the one person we had in common.
He politely left the implied "...of my daughter"
part out of his question. There's a grace
that must only come with gray, or so I thought.

"Yes. Please."

He led me into his room
where even more photographs
of his children, mostly his youngest
lined the perimeter. It was like
being on holy ground, or the inside
of a submarine.

"Here...this is me as an infant...right
above her baby picture."

Daddy's Little Girl, alright.
I almost chuckled at the symbolism
but couldn't cheapen his shrine
once I saw his silly grin.
We continued to admire
thirty years of beauty
framed throughout his room.

"God...that hair. It breaks my heart."

"You like her with long hair?"

"I like her either way, but yes.
How it was when we met."

"I like it short," he said
and once again I felt out-numbered.

We shared a few brief silent moments
absorbing her smile until he interjected--

"This one was taken at Universal Studios
when she was seeing that guy who..."

"Please don't," I begged, waving my hand
in his stubborn direction. It was no use.

"Oh, no. It's fine. She was with this..."
he continued with his signature lack
of social tact, let alone remorse.
She was right: he really was oblivious.
I pulled a trick from my former life as an amphibian
and sealed my ears to keep out the bad.
The past. The ones who did her wrong.
We stumbling knights in tarnished armor
always hate the men in ten-gallon black hats.

"How about her lovely tan in this one?"
I asked in a desperate attempt
to change the subject
that he was so adamant about clarifying.

"That's when she lived in LA with her brother."

"She's gorgeous," I said in a tone humbled by beauty.

"That's my girl."

I could've chimed in self-inclusively, but opted
to let him have that one to himself.
The photos proved he'd earned it.
Someday I'll ask if he thinks I could, too.