The Script I Kept

The phone went dead.

My hand still warm against the cold plastic.

And there it was again, the speech.

The one I'd crafted in the shower,

the phrases turned just right,

the measured hurt, the careful plea.

About Mom. About her quiet ways.

About how we don't talk enough,

not really, about the gaps

that grew between us, like weeds

in cracked pavement.

I'd pictured her face,

the way her eyes might drop.

My sister's face, her nod of understanding.

And then the moment passed.

We talked about bills instead.

About the weather.

And now the words sit here,

in my throat, a knot.

Heavy. Perfectly formed, perfectly useless.

Just another silence, adding up.