If I Could Call You Now

To Dad

This morning I woke up

with your name sitting in my throat,

like something I meant to say yesterday

but forgot to get out.

Still there. Still waiting.

I keep wishing for one more minute -

just enough to grab a chair,

step into a little quiet,

and dial whatever number

you might still answer

if God made exceptions.

There’s so much I didn’t know I’d need -

questions no one warned me about,

stories I only half told,

jokes that got stuck midair

and had nowhere to land.

Life keeps rolling forward -

days piling up on each other,

seasons trading coats -

but a few moments stay put,

like they nailed themselves down

so I can’t forget.

I’d fill you in - what’s new, what’s not.

How some dreams feel too big to carry,

and others tuck right into my pocket.

I’d tell you I’m doing my best.

That I’m still figuring out

how to miss somebody

and keep moving anyway.

Honestly, I’d give up every clock in the house

for one tiny stretch of time

where the distance folds in,

and you pick up on the first ring.

And I’d say the things

I should’ve said louder -

miss you,

I'll be back soon,

and thank you.

Because all I want right now

is a real conversation -

a few ordinary words

from the voice I still hear

whenever the room settles.

A dad kind of voice - yours -

the one I keep talking to

even when no one’s on the line.

GBS jr

2024