Sue Ellen Thomson

Wednesdays

by Sue Ellen Thompson


Along with his two surviving sisters, the five of us
divided up the week, so that one of us would call
my father every night at dinnertime. My night
was Wednesday, and after we discussed the weather,
and he expressed amazement that New Hampshire
could have record-breaking rains while Maryland
clung stubbornly to drought, he’d ask if I had spoken
with my daughter lately. I’d say No, that it had been
a month, or that I’d left a message and she hadn’t
called me back, and he’d say what a shame that was,
he didn’t understand how silence could descend
between a parent and a child. With that, he’d reach
across the kitchen table with his knotted fingers
for her latest postcard, then for his magnifying glass.
I marveled at the torrent of her sentences,
when her communications with me were so sere
and brief. When he was done, I’d say, “I’ll talk
to you again next week,” to which he responded
cheerfully, right up until the end, “I hope so.”

- Sue Ellen Thompson from They.
© Turning Point Press, 2014. Writer's Almanac