Freckeld hands

He didn't live with us in the red house
that burst like applause
from the quiet white snow.
We were too young to know why,
busy with ice games and sledding down hills
that shouldered snowflakes.
We thought everyone saw
their dad on the weekends.
Hearing his car engine
unzip the frozen driveway,
three pairs of feet would scurry
to answer the door.
In the summer he took us to carnivals,
the kind put up in store parking lots
in the middle of the night.
The northern sun was brutal,
making up for lost time.
I squirmed as his freckled hands,
wide as the map of the world
rubbed sunscreen unto my face.
He tried to be gentle,
big palms coasting and bumping
over cheekbones and nose.
As time went by, I saw him less.
I swallowed the rising need
like bile in the back of my throat.
I think of his hands pressed on my face
and know if it was today
I would stand still.