(Unspoken)

Exactly as your father taught you, you load the dishwasher. Every piece has its place, its moment to shine. You've spent years as his understudy, practicing the fine art, tweaking the science. And now, you see to it (without being asked, because he cannot, and you can, and will, for him). His absence is a heartbreak (a newly arrived insurmountable anguish), but this one thing (this one good thing), you can do.

Your mother talks about her sciatica (how much she misses his hands rubbing away the ache like it's his joy to take it from her) and Sunday supper (without the head of the table) and the way her African violets seem to shrivel in the light (in a new corner in a new room in this new place where she lives on her own for the first time in 60 years). She talks and talks, happy that you're here (and she's not so alone) in her new place.

The radio rattles and hums (With or Without You... and you're instantly back there, listened to that song, to those words, with or without your father... and it floods back... that camping trip to Old Rag... he chaperoned, and that new release came crackling over the airwaves... U2 wasn't his drink, but he never said a word, just smiled and let you find your own way). You hum along discretely, smiling just a bit (words are hard, and the song is ironic) and you ask what else you can do to help your mom (now).

Your sister and her husband, and your brother and his wife, they'll all stop by a little later, coming for dinner, checking in (struggling through the infernal silence in their minds, and the calamity in their souls, searching for the words to show how fully they share in this unspeakable loss), bringing their lasagne and garlic bread, and the makings of a salad.

I jump in, helping out, doing what I can (because of love).

After tearing up the lettuce (because I can't get my hands on Death), I begin to set the table (only too aware how many plates).

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Copyright © 04/28/2023 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.