The Conspiracy

I called and asked how she was doing.

She said fine, and I heard the pause blooming

between the word and what it meant.

My hand tightened. I could feel her

sitting alone in that house, the older

understanding passing between us:

don't ask why, don't make this worse.

Fine. That's the conspiracy we share.

It means I'm managing the weight I bear.

It means certain things go unspoken.

It means our pact has already been broken

by the simple act of asking at all.

I said okay. She said fine again,

and that was the end, the amen,

the period on a sentence we'd never speak.

The line went quiet.

Not dead. Just the kind of quiet

that means we've both agreed to bury

everything we should say.