What I Didn't Tell You

I stood in the doorway while you worked the bolt,

watched the wrench slip and slip, but I didn't exalt

in knowing the right way to hold it.

My father would have stepped in and told it

to me again, the pressure, the weight, the fit.

But I let you figure it out bit by bit,

stood silent while you adjusted and tried,

let the metal teach you what I'd denied

myself the pleasure of teaching. You got

it right eventually. You didn't ask, you thought

it through alone, and maybe that's kinder

than me being the one to unlock, to hinder

you with my knowledge. So I stood there,

empty-handed, silent, going nowhere,

watching you learn without my help.

That was the distance I could offer myself.

I couldn't be him. I couldn't teach.

I could only stand beyond your reach,

and let you have the satisfaction

of figuring it out. That's my transaction—

I give you nothing. You take nothing.

And we both know something,

but not from each other. We know

from the bolt, the wrench, from not knowing

what the other one is thinking. That's

all I had to give. I can't commit

to being the teacher. And that's it—

I stood in the doorway with my empty hands,

and you became someone I don't understand.