The Unanswered Call, Or, The Taste of Pennies

Okay, Mom's text. 'He'd love to hear from you.' That line, thin,

like old string, never quite holds. Where do I begin?

The phone feels heavy, a cold, dark brick.

My thumb just hovers, playing a trick.

I remember his breath, not perfume or spice,

but old coffee, stale, and something not nice.

Like loose change, pennies, too long in a pocket,

a dull, metallic taste, a rusty locket.

And his laugh, a bark, never quite right,

too loud, too sudden, in the fading light.

He'd ask the same questions, each year the same drill,

about school, or a job, or if I was still,

alone. And then the silence, thick and slow,

a space where nothing honest seemed to grow.

Mom means well, I know, she always does,

but some gaps, they're just too wide for us.

The number sits there, just a blur.

And I can't quite make myself stir.