Dial Tones, by Lauren Saxon
My dad’s dad never told him that he loved him. Never out loud. God, that’s so fucked up / I know. My brother and I are debriefing after dinner, in the hotel room that we share. Not even when he was dying? / I guess not. That image makes me so sad. My grandfather on his deathbed, cells multiplying in his liver, remaining tight-lipped with the son that shares his own name. My dad always had clothes on his back. Food on his plate. A roof over his head and wasn’t that enough? (It wasn’t.) And what can three little words mean, in the face of all of that? (Everything.) At his funeral, my dad cried. I had never seen that before. My dad, attempting to subtly wipe his eyes, looked about six years old. Fighting back tears after another run in with the belt or switch or back of the hand. Swearing it didn’t even hurt.
My dad’s dad never told him that he loved him and now he’s picky with the phrase. Critical of who deserves it, and when. He tells his kids that he loves them but is frugal with his praise. Makes me work for it. Beg for it. Drops it like a bomb then walks away. If I’m not careful, I’ll spend a lifetime crawling after him, One time. (A friend is talking to me, now.) One time your dad told me I was a good mom and I just started crying. I laugh at this. Tell her that I understand and agree with my him. I felt so stupid crying because he’s not even my dad. Not even an authority figure, like, we’re equals. I tell her I get it. My dad walks into a room. Takes up all of that space. He laughs and you want to have told the joke behind it. When my he surveys the scene oh God—you want him to like you. To love you.
My dad’s dad never told him that he loved him and now I’m passionate in protest. I tell my brother and my friends. I tell my cats and the strangers at the bar I tend that I love them. I give praise freely. I love people that I should (and people that I shouldn’t.) I say it so often I worry it reduces the meaning, but I mean it. I called my dad last Sunday. We talked about football and when we might see each other next. The holidays, for sure. We said our goodbyes. After an awkward silence, I took a calculated risk. Snuck in a love you before he could end the call and I saw him. Holding the words like a fragile newborn, away from his chest. Saw him staring at the words, a mix of fear and confusion. With great effort, he says them back. Love you, too. Says it like a language he is still learning to speak, then hangs up the phone.
Lauren Saxon is a queer, Black poet and engineer living in Portland, ME. She loves her cats, her Subaru, and spends way too much time on twitter (@Lsax_235). Lauren is Editor of Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and her work is featured in Flypaper Magazine, Empty Mirror, Homology Lit, Nimrod International Journal and more. Her debut chapbook, "You're My Favorite" is out now with Thirty West Publishing.