Late December: my father and I br are going to New York, to the circus. br He holds me br on his shoulders in the bitter wind: br scraps of white paper br blow over the railroad ties. br br My father liked br to stand like this, to hold me br so he couldn't see me. br I remember br staring straight ahead br into the world my father saw; br I was learning br to absorb its emptiness, br the heavy snow br not falling, whirling around us.