Same Father, Different Rooms

Three lines and a cake.

That's what she sent.

Happy birthday! Hope it's a good one 🎂

She would have had to look it up.

I've met her twice — once at a funeral

where we stood on opposite sides

of the same mouth,

once at a restaurant chosen

for its neutrality, the way

you'd choose a country

for a summit.

I stared at the message

for twenty minutes.

The cursor blinked

in the reply field

like a metronome

for a song neither of us

knows the words to.

I typed thank you.

Deleted it. Too cold.

Typed that's so sweet of you.

Deleted it. Too warm.

Typed hey —

and sat there

with that word

hanging open

like a door

to a room I've never entered

in a house I partly own.

She has his nose. I saw it

at the restaurant.

I have his hands.

Between us we could

assemble something

like a father

from the parts he gave away

in different decades

to different women

who loved him

in different cities

for different reasons

that amount to the same

mistake.

The cake emoji

sat at the end of her message,

small and impossibly bright.

I'm still looking at it.

I haven't closed the thread.