I recognized the shape of my father’s body in his unmade bed. I could almost see him sleeping and hear his snores. And you’ve never heard such sounds—sounds resembling the heavy breath grunts of buttermilk bottom preachers. And I was one of the captivated without a church home, drawn to the message coming from his nasal passage. My father’s sleep was so deep and his snoring so commanding that the Lord would have needed an appointment before tipping up on him to negotiate a loan of a rib. But Pops’ quarrel wasn’t with the Lord.

“Damn whiteys, buildin a kingdom off a my back!” How many times were those words hammered into his talk? He would get so worked up when he said them that I never dared ask what he meant. Listening to him snore was my way of eavesdropping on what was going on inside him without bugging him. This was much better than talking to him directly because while he slept I could create my own conversation between us, asking questions I might never have put to him otherwise and imagining his answers blown through snores. Pops’ body would be a sprawling heap of steady motion as I crawled into bed with him. Under the surveillance of his snoring, I inchwormed up to his double-barreled nostrils. Up close, the full stature of his nose was revealed: an Egyptian pyramid scarred with hieroglyphics. Latching on to its rhythmic pattern I snuggled my nose under his and drew from his breath, letting it mingle with mine. And from the pull and smell of his rest Pops spoke to me, exhaling the whys and wherefores of his life into me. I’d doze for a while, share some sleep with Pops, and tuck myself inside the labor of his soul.

“Damn whiteys, buildin a kingdom off a my back!”

Those catnaps with my father made those words the handle that cranked out my first clear sounds. His snoring was filled with the lingo that a father must pass on to his son if his son is to carry on the family tongue, get a grip on his own voice, and not lose himself in babbling.

The presence of my mother overtook me as I remembered how some mornings she would sit at the kitchen table staring into a cup of coffee. In between sips I saw expressions settle on her face that had nothing to do with her being my mother and my father’s wife… Maybe after the first sip it was the look of a little girl that sprang into her face, entertaining whatever came into her head. Those creases outlining her cheeks after the second sip could have been the signs of some past ache. And maybe after another taste the acid kickback of coffee caused her face to tremble with what might have been a craving for something she desperately needed but could never find. And when she drained the cup of coffee and all the lines in her face were smoothed out, the smile could have been satisfaction over where she’d traveled between the brim and the dregs of the cup.