When my father failed
at frying an egg
on the occupational therapy stove,
forgetting to press in the knob
before turning it to medium-high,
then cracking the shell
too hard on the skillet’s rim
so half the white
dribbled down the outside
and onto the burner,
then struggling to reach a plate
from the nearby cupboard
on account of the plastic tubes
coiling out of his kidneys,
the pouches of urine
velcroed to his hips
like pistols in a holster,
the social worker suggested
he be discharged to a sniff
instead of going home.
And when I looked puzzled,
she clarified a sniff
is a skilled nursing facility,
commonly abbreviated
S-N-F, or sniff.
Sniff, I repeated, my mind
pondering that acronym
turned onomatopoeia
for the sound we make
to clear tears from our noses,
or the method by which
we detect the smell
of something suddenly burning.
Doug Fritock is a writer, husband, and father of 4, who was born and raised in the suburbs of Philadelphia, but now lives in Redondo Beach, California. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Prime Number Magazine, and Whale Road Review among others. He is an active member of Maya C. Popa’s Conscious Writers Collective.