The Things He Won't

He called yesterday.

No reason.

Just called.

I asked him directly—

How are you?

Like I meant the real question underneath.

There was a pause.

I could hear his truck idling

in the driveway.

The air between us,

the distance,

the sound of him deciding

what to say.

Then: Nice weather today.

That's all.

He didn't tell me about the doctor's appointment.

Didn't mention his back,

or his heart, or whatever it is

he's not telling me.

Just: nice weather.

I could hear him breathing.

Could picture him sitting

in the cab of that truck,

engine running,

fingers on the wheel,

choosing not to say

the thing I asked him to say.

My father speaks in weather reports.

In what he's not saying.

In pauses that last too long.

I don't know how to ask him

the questions that matter

because I already know

the answer will be silence,

or a deflection,

or a comment about the sky.

He'll die someday

and I'll know less about him

than I know about a stranger

I sat next to on a train.

I'll know he liked his coffee black.

I'll know he could fix anything

with his hands.

I'll know he couldn't fix

whatever broke in him

that made silence

easier than words.

He's still on the phone,

the truck still running.

I could ask him again.

But we both know

he won't answer.

So instead I say: Yeah. Nice weather.

And we sit with that.

The thing we're both not saying.

The pause that's become our language.