The Loveless Smudges

You never spoke about it, but I know you knew your father wasn't dead because each week you would receive a check with his signature. He can write, at least. When you were younger, I always watched you, waiting by the letter box or, if you forgot to wait, you careering across the yard at first sight of the postal carrier. You would study the envelopes for the old man's blocky handwriting. If it appeared, you would tear that bastard open. You pored over the checks, especially the John Hancock. You became a student of each loop and whorl; a professor of every dot or cross. If a curve became unexpectedly thick or severe or even, god forbid, broken, you would ruminate for days. What did these imperfections in his automatic mean? Did they indicate longing? A moment's hesitation? Was he angry? Upset? I imagine most children learn to read their fathers' moods from fatherly faces, paternal smiles, scowls, curious grins; you had the strange way ink dries on paper.