Father of Grown Sons

I’m lousy at small talk

Never know what to say

Each week I call both of my grown sons

Eager to talk

With little to say

I give them “the rundown”

My week (I worked a lot)

How Diana’s busy at church

How their youngest brother,

Fares in his junior year in high school

Both of them

Say exactly the same thing

They’ve been busy at work

They haven’t done much else

The story of all of our adulthoods

I scramble for something to say

Eager to extend the conversation

Try to talk about cars with the oldest

About sci fi books and movies with the second one

Wanting to continue the connection

What I want to say

Is how I remember how the oldest

Rode on my shoulders,

Putting his hands over my eyes,

Laughing

His little voice

“Saying peek a boo,”

The game never got old for him

And I

Never tired of playing

And I want to tell my second son,

How he said, “Play with me, Daddy,”

And we’d sit on the floor

And play Hot wheels, or make airplanes,

Or play with Choo Choo Charley

Or how when he was a baby

On colicky nights

I would hold him my arms

Literally walking for hours

So he could sleep

I want to say

I look at their pictures every day

Mind filled with images of them at every age

That I keep the oldest’s Batman on my desk at work

And that Choo Choo Charley is still on my desk at home

I want to say that

Even with distance, even with age

My heart is still bursting with love for them

As full as it was

On the day each was born

I say none of these things.

After awkward silence, I say

“I better let you go.

Have a good week,”

And mutter

A quick

“I love you,”

Hoping they hear

Before

They hang up.