In The Dark

We were friends and fourteen
in Taiwan—
a long way from home
and busy, missionary parents.
So we broke curfew,
climbed out windows
through bushes and iron gates
to smoke
behind a poor farmer's shack
hidden by corrugated tin,
and plywood,
and night.
We left our ashes
and our fiery adolescent confusion
in a sand pile by the door.
That night
a fire burned
the place down.
With morning light
we were caught
and punished.

My father
only wrote once
in all those years
I was away
at boarding school.
The letter
was on a blank note card
penned in his familiar
and mysterious scrawl.
It was only a few
sentences long.

“Dear Erin,” it began.
“I am disappointed in you.”
He explained:
Not for breaking rules
or ruining my body
with bad habits, no.
But for being with two boys
in the dark.

I kept it for years
as the only keepsake
I had from him,
and memorized it
word for word.