three years after my parents' divorce, I road-trip with my dad

---

hello.

it's been awkward.

six hours and thousands of miles

but not a word was said to 

bridge the gap,

only a sprinkling of laughter: crumbly plastery filling, 

forced lightness, because we can't seem to accept the darkness: 

that cramped pretense we put up instead,

a poor protection for what should be spoken,

but hangs out to dry on the fine line of silence, 

waiting, perhaps, for when we turn and (actually) say 

hello.

it's been tiring.

three years and thousands of conversations

but hardly a word was said to 

bridge the gap,

only a sprinkling of outings: flimsy sugary filling,

like melting ice cream, because we can't seem to have a full meal,

that duty called "quality time" by convention, 

hiding the longing for something substantial

but giving in to habit just one more time,

waiting, perhaps, for when we try to (really) say

hello.

it's been difficult.

one childhood and thousands of memories

but not a word I've said to

bridge the gap,

only a scrapbook of snapshots: glossy papery coverings,

simpler times, because I can't seem to move on;

fake decelerations of time that speed by in a heartbeat,

wondering if things could be different,

but curling in at the pain of pushing forward,

waiting, perhaps, for the day I’m ready to (eventually) say 

hello.