Sounds Good

The last thing I said to him was

alright, sounds good.

Thanksgiving logistics. Whether he was bringing

the rolls or the pie. He said pie.

I said alright, sounds good, and hung up

and that was it. Two minutes

on the call log. No voicemail.

Just his name and a duration.

My cousin told the story wrong last week—

the gathering, whatever we're calling it

now that it's been almost a year.

She changed the punchline. Made him gentler

than he was, which isn't hard

because he wasn't gentle,

and that was the whole point of him.

I stood by the kitchen island

holding a paper plate I wasn't eating from

and thought about correcting her.

Thought about saying actually,

that's not how he told it—he told it meaner,

and the mean part was the funny part,

and you're making him into someone

easy to miss, and he wasn't easy.

He was difficult. That's what I miss.

But I didn't say it.

I said sounds good, basically.

Different words. Same function.

The call log still has his name.

I keep scrolling past it when I'm looking

for something else. Two minutes.

I don't even remember if he said goodbye

or just hung up. I think he just hung up.

That was like him. That was actually

exactly like him, and nobody

at that gathering would know that

because they've already started

remembering someone else.