The Year He Became

I was looking for the car insurance—

wrong folder, wrong year,

and there it was between the electric bill

and something from the water authority.

His naturalization certificate.

Laminated. The photo

gone to a brownish tone

I've only seen on documents

that matter too much to replace.

He looks young in it.

He looks younger than I am right now,

which I was not prepared for.

The signature at the bottom

is careful—each letter placed

like he knew someone

would be checking.

I've had his phone number memorized

since I was eight.

I have never once asked him

what that day felt like.

The folder went back in the drawer.

I found the insurance.

I called him that night

about something else entirely.