Fourteen Months and Then That Phrase

She said it in the meeting: well,

that's one way to do it. And I fell

out of the room. The stairwell. Level three.

My hand against a yellow column. He

said it all the time—my father. Gone

fourteen months. I thought I'd moved on

past hearing him in everything. The last call

he was tired. I said I'd let him go. All

he said was okay. I said okay.

Six days. Then the other call. The way

okay sounds now. I have his number saved.

I don't call it. I found the car and stayed

a long time with the engine off. The smell

of concrete, exhaust, old oil. Well.

That's one way to do it.