I Call From Airports

My father is always glad to hear from me.  He lives in a shrinking world and drives a car that only knows five places to go.  He mostly stays within his own walls and the accumulation of years, preparing, waiting, eying the bottle of caramel colored liquor a dozen times a day.  I call from airports, making his day, answering the same questions, offering continuity, knowing that one day the news won't be good and that, like all living things, his voice will grow slower, tired, Memphis drawl more pronounced until, as his twilight takes greater hold, we have another innocuous conversation for me to return to again and again.

© Poem Fix 2012

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