My Father Tossed a Blue Savings Passbook into the Mud at Cedar Ridge

A coffee machine hissed.

Silverware scraped against plates.

Every time I tried to picture Mr.

Miller, his face seemed less certain in my mind.

I tried to remember his exact words and wondered whether he had actually said the account was active.

He had taken the passbook away.

He had flipped the sign to closed.

He had clicked his ballpoint pen before talking to me.