The Jingle Doesn't Know

The truck came around twice,

that four-note jingle worn down from summer.

October has no business with that sound,

and yet—

Forty minutes I'd been sitting with your silence.

The occupational therapist said try music,

so I brought a playlist on my phone

and you sat. Your hands open in your lap

like you'd just set something down.

Then the jingle. Distant, thin, looping

through the parking lot below.

Your right hand tightened on the armrest.

Your face turned toward the window that doesn't open—

not toward me,

toward something older, something

that asked less of you.

The truck turned left. The music thinned

to nothing down the street.

Your hand went slack.

You went back to wherever you go.

I sat there with the playlist still running—

a song you used to like, I think.

I'm not sure anymore.

That truck doesn't know what it did to me.