Twenty-Two Minutes

He called on a Thursday.

I'd been carrying the sentence for weeks —

the exact words, the right opening,

the way I'd say it without making it

something he'd need to defend himself from.

I'd practiced in the shower.

In the car. Walking.

The call was twenty-two minutes.

We talked about the usual things —

his knee, the weather up there,

a show he'd been watching.

I held the sentence in my chest the whole time,

waiting for the space.

The space came twice.

I said something else both times.

He said he'd better go.

I said yeah, me too, good talking.

The line went quiet.

The phone screen dimmed in my hand

and then went dark.

I sat there with it.

The sentence still exactly where I'd left it —

same words, same order,

same careful placement of the pause.

Nothing changed about it.

I don't know if I'll say it

or if the saying was always beside the point —

if what I wanted was just

to have it ready, to know

that if I'd wanted to,

I could have.