Measure for Measure

The phone shrills at 10 p.m. on Father's Day. A reedy
voice asks for dad. I hand the avocado green hand set
over. "Son, where are you? I've been worried about you."
Dad's fierce voice tears through the silence in our kitchen.
My brother Jimmy is lost and chasing the dragon. This is
the first call in four years. Dad says

"I don't care" followed by

a string of yeses.

The softest words are uttered,

"I love you."

"Please come home, Jimmy."

This son is not Jimmy but a stranger who dialed the wrong
number. Dad says, " You must call your father." Then repeats
our home number three times and tells the son to call him back.
Dad tells us this as he shuffles the deck of pinochle cards.

I must forgive my father

dead now these forty years

for all his absences from our

family. I speak with soft words.

I love you dad.