Father constructs his life around smoke. My favorite color is sallow. The kind of yellow reserved for a minor saint. Or how I imagine honey sunlit for too long. Or a goldfinch shaking off frost. It must be Mother's, too. Curtains, wall paint, even her fingertips. She opens the blinds each morning, sings to smoke shaped by the ceiling fan. I begin to yellow in solidarity. I learn yellow paper is important, though other methods may reduce the risk of cancer. Father barely notices, days spent inside the power plant's hot body. I'm not sure whether he drives or is airborne. When he opens the front door, it's sulfur, then coal wisps, then Father. He stores smoke in his lungs to keep him company on vacations. Once, he coughed up a live spark. Mother grabbed me by the staple and shut the desk drawer hard.
