A Conversation - #fridayflash

Photo credit: Gusgus2 @ trekearth



"Have I called at a bad time?" I ask.

I can hear he is distracted, barely listening.

"No," he says, "it's fine."

"Oh," I say. "Good."

There's a pause. He doesn't rush to fill it, so I do.

"We took Trixie to the dog spa today," I say, looking down at the ridiculously cute pom-chihuahua mix spinning at my feet. She always spins when she wants something. Spins, then sits pretty, all black fur and dark eyes. She looks like a fruit bat and weighs all of seven pounds. The vet says she needs to go on a diet. She has doubled her body weight since we had her fixed two years ago.

"She looks really cute, " I say, and am about to tell my 13-year-old son that the groomer put a paisley bandana around her neck when he interrupts to scream at his younger brother.

It hurts my ears.

It hurts my heart.

I wait until he's done. Then I wait to see if he'll say anything, or notice if I'm still there.

He says nothing.

I can hear him breathing. I can hear his fingers working the controls of his X-box.

Finally I say something, unable to bear the silence.

"Anything new and exciting?" I ask.

"Nope," he says.

"How's school?"

"Fine," he says.

"How's your brother?" I ask.

"He's fine."

"Good," I say.

Silence descends on the conversation.

My sons live with their father and I can't tell you how painful it is to only see them every other weekend. We lose touch. We become strangers. I don't know who they are anymore, or how to talk with them.

I force myself to call them, to let them know I haven't forgotten about them - how could I - but they never want to talk to me on the phone. They have nothing to tell me. They barely listen to things I tell them. There is no conversation, just stilted awkwardness.

I can talk with complete strangers more easily than I can talk to my own children.

As always, I feel sadness settling into the hollow void in my chest. I fight it off. I try to sound perky.

Since he won't tell me anything about himself, I try to tell him something about me. He never asks. I don't honestly thinks he cares. But I try. Trying is all I have.

"I found out one of my stories won a prize this week," I say.

"Oh yeah," he says.

He doesn't ask what story, what contest, what prize.

I hear his fingers, working the game.

Tears spill from my eyes and drip from my chin.

"I have to go now," I say.

"OK."

"I love you," I say, barely able to speak the words but meaning them utterly.

"Love you, too," he says. Flatly. As if by rote.

He hangs up.

The dial tone buzzes in my ear.