SPACES

Since my father died
I call my mother at least
twice a week. I ask
about her day, if her feet
still hurt. I wish
we had more to say. Jazz
plays softly on my stereo
as she tells me the new
burner was installed Thursday,
the garage door is falling
apart and the yard needs
weeding. Soon, she'll realize
she's talking to the wrong son.
I can balance her checkbook,
pitch batting practice
to the grandkids for hours.
But I can barely tell
the difference between a pair
of pliers and a wrench.

Anytime I had to work
around the house, Dad
would end up yelling
and send me to my room,
finish the job himself.
I'd slam the door, strap
headphones on and blast
The Young Rascals. Later,
he'd push open my door,
toss me my fielder's mitt.
We'd race the six blocks
to the sand lots. He crouched
behind home plate, put down
one finger. I tugged my cap,
started my wind up and hit
his target with a high hard one.
The Friday before Father's
Day, I asked Mom
if she would be alright, if
she wanted me to come by.
She started to cry. I felt
helpless, tried to untangle
the extension cord. I knew
she would never tell me
what she misses most
about him, or when she feels
the loneliest I kept
quiet, listened to the music.
Monk was playing a piece
I couldn't name. The spaces
between the notes kept getting
bigger, and somehow I knew
Thelonius had made those places
so my mother could cry
and I could listen.

Tony Gloeggler
Richmond Hill, NY