by Lisa Underwood

I lie down too tired to brush my teeth, staring
at an eighth-grade picture of you, your mouth
brilliant with metal, your green eyes begging
love me love me. I shut it in the drawer, out of
sight, out of mind, like all the things I keep in
frames, on shelves, in closets, the boxes of
trading cards and action figures, trophies I
haven’t thrown away, thinking maybe you’d
want them someday like your cat, only a shadow
now. I know I should put her down but I don’t,
though she’s bony and toothless, stone deaf,
roaming the house howling for what I don’t know.
Calling, calling like your father on Sundays, like
his own father would do, alone and confused,
always looking for something he’d lost. Calling,
calling until we dreaded picking up the phone,
dreaded even his voice on the answering machine:
It’s PawPaw give me a call I’m homeIt’s PawPaw
It’sPawPawgivemeacallI’mhomeIt’sPawPaw
itsPawPaw…I hear your father talking now to your
unanswered phone: It’s Dad. Give us a call,
we’re home, and I try to remember to scold him
for making us sound so old.

Lisa C. Underwood received her Master of Arts in journalism from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and her Master of Fine Arts in creative writing from Queens University. She has written for newspapers and magazines and worked in public relations for corporations and educational institutions. Her creative writing has appeared in journals and anthologies. Lisa’s first book of poetry is The Bone Picker (Finishing Line Press, due out in 2026). She lives in Greensboro, NC.