And I almost think I should fix that.
Who knows when I might have another chance?
HE’S ON THE PORCH
Smoking and, of course, sucking
up suds. Who knows when he might
have another chance at a good buzz?
Kortni went to town for groceries.
(She still has her driver’s license.)
So there’s an empty chair. I sit.
“Hey, Dad. I just want you to know …”
Say it. Say it. Say it. Can’t. Not yet.
“I’m sorry about what happened.”
He doesn’t look at me. Just stares
across the winter-bared fields.
Me too. Sometimes I’m plain stupid.
All the time. But I don’t tell him
I think so. Say it. Say it. Say it.
Ah, what the hell. “Love you, Dad.”
Now he looks at me, eyes drawing
slowly from the dirt, across dead
air, to my face. What did you say?
He didn’t hear? Didn’t believe
it? And now I have to repeat it?
“I said, uh … that I love you.”
I EXPECT
A reciprocal declaration—an “I love
you, too.” Or maybe condemnation—
a “Why don’t you say it more often?”
Anything, really, but what he does say:
Why?