true because I've given up expecting that much from our conversations. I wonder if he thinks the same thing, that there isn’t much either of us can say to rewrite the past.
I'm surprised when he stays on the line longer than is normal. He tells me about a car he bought a few years ago.
He says, “Guess how many miles I have on that car?”
I don't try to guess.
He says, “9,000.”
I say, “In two years?”
“Yes,” he says. “I hardly go anywhere anymore.”
My father has COPD and his body is giving up on him. Most days he can't leave the house. My brothers tell me that when he walks now he slumps over as if his body is curling in on itself.
“Well,” I say, “you'll get a great resale value on it when you trade it in.”
My father only keeps cars for a few years before trading in for a new one.
“Oh, not this one,” he says. “I'll have this one until I die.”
His frankness takes me aback, an acknowledgement of his condition that he only recently accepted and one that he wears calmly about him, as if dying is a task he has to be patient with.
We talk a little longer. I don't want to hang up the phone, but he suddenly says, “Okay, well I better let you go.” He mutters a quick “I love you,” and I mutter one back to him and then the line goes dead.
For a while after he hangs up, I feel something I've never felt after talking to him. I feel hopeful. I don't know what to do with this feeling. I don't know how to place it in our difficulty history together. I don't know where it will lead me, or us.