My father lost his big toe while hiking, and he never stopped looking for it. He  would take us for long drives at the foot of the mountains, where we would search while he  muttered “maybe it rolled.” He would tell us again about the bar up the street that was serving a new cocktail where a dried toe from the pioneer days was wedged on the side of the glass. “If a toe can last that long, then surely...” he'd trail off and survey the horizon. 

          We checked if the bar had his toe. My father sipped back the drink and let his lips linger on the toe long after the whiskey was gone. He was fairly sure it wasn't his. We were not welcome back. 

          We heard about a place off the coast of Vancouver, where severed limbs, once they made their way to the sea and cleared customs, would wash ashore. My father threw his shirts into a bag and took off in the pickup truck. When neighbors asked where he went we explained he was “finding himself” and they would nod. He sent us a postcard explaining he would search the world over, and when he found his toe he'd come back. My mother shook her head and tossed the letter aside. 

          I heard about a place in New York where severed fathers, once they made their way to the sea and cleared customs, would wash ashore. They would gather under the trees in the summer, or in cafes in winter and play games of chess. I threw my shirts in a bag and took off walking. I wrote a postcard back explaining I would search the world over, and not return until I found my father again. My mother did not write back.