The first time I took a swing at the inflatable swan, I landed face first against one of the corners of my living room table. My mouth was too full of blood to answer the emergency dentist even with half honestly.

The next time I was ready to take a swing at the inflatable swan, I estimated my reach and then squatted in front of it. I threw two jabs before my midsection and thighs began to ache. My tailbone reminded me for a week or two why uppercuts are better thrown while standing up.

During my lunch break, I sit by the part of the lake where the swans hang out. I only throw bread crumbs at them when I think the cops or park maintenance can’t see me. I glance at the swans’ eyes as they bend their necks, snap their bills. It’s been 42 days and I still haven’t found my father. I’ll keep knocking the inflatable swan down. I’ll keep getting up again.