I remember lying on my bed looking out the window

Two pigeons on a ledge

No sheet on the mattress

I was changing it

You called.

Your father is dying.

We talk

I offer you what I can

Not much

I listen

You do not cry, you won’t yet.

Making your armour with words.

I listen.

You talk.

I never met your father.

Though I feel I have

When you talk of him now your eyes shine

With the wetness of tears

But also with a fondness

A love unique.