The Same Tone

He asked me something simple,

a question a seven-year-old asks

when he doesn't understand

why the world works the way it does,

and I heard it come out of me—

not the words, I was careful with the words,

but the sound underneath,

the impatience,

the thinning of patience

that says I have already answered this,

that says your question

is an interruption

of something more important,

that says you should have known better.

He pulled back.

His face did that thing,

that small closing,

like a door someone locks

because they've learned

what's on the other side

doesn't welcome questions.

I know that face.

I wore it.

I wore it in a kitchen,

at a dinner table,

in a car driving somewhere

I didn't want to go.

He's seven.

I'm thirty-something.

And somehow I've become

the voice I spent my childhood

trying to be quiet around,

the tone that taught me

that need is inconvenient,

that asking is dangerous,

that there's a right way to be

and everything else

is wrong.

He's still standing there.

I could fix it.

I could ask him again,

could let him ask,

could be the person

who doesn't have that voice.

But I already failed.

The tone is already in him now,

already teaching him

what I learned.