Silent Conversations

Hugh Cartwright

My love for you is boundless. And yet you are the source of unrelenting pain.

###

I pick up the phone and tap in your number, eager for the comfort of your voice.

“How are you doing, love?” I ask. “How has your day been?”

I call every evening: my attempt to redraw history. Not waiting for your reply, I rushed on.

“You’ll never guess who arrived at my door today,” I continue, “your mother. Can you believe it?”

In one hundred days, she has not visited the home that we three loved so much. “You can’t cope with more pain John, so I’ll stay away for now” she had written on that black-rimmed card. As if I’m to blame for all that happened.

“We sat in the garden, just like our happiest times,” I carry on, “warmed by the sun, the air thick with the scent of roses. I kept looking around for you; but you were never there.”

###

It’s dusk. Your mother has kissed me, consoled me, and left.

I hug the phone; listening, waiting. There is only silence.

For one hundred days it has been the same. I cannot hear your voice or feel your touch. I know I never shall.

I have made a hundred calls to you, my beloved dead daughter. I hang up, and my tears flow again.