Deep in the cotton petals of a watermark br I see my father stacking sheets of plywood, br br his hands freckled with sawdust, his silvery br white skin flickering in the sun, my mother br br standing beside him, measuring each plank br of wood, her eyes like blackberries floating br br in a pool of milk. She says, 'There's something br wrong, ' and fog settles like an argument. br br A Coca-Cola bottle sweats on the picnic table, br the petals of pansies curl into tight yellow fists, br br and my parents stand there, like boards that won't br fit, like two splintered edges refusing to meet.