On Father's Day

I didn't call my dad on Father's Day.
We'd grown so far apart,
I couldn't think what to say
that wouldn't come out sounding like accusation.

I remember picking up the phone,
starting to dial, sitting beside my window,
looking at the view he'd never seen
-- and now will never see --
and wondering if he'd even answer the phone.
"Oh, what would be the point," I thought,
remembering the year before,
when I'd flown to Texas at Christmas time,
desperate to mend the rift between us,
and he'd called me at my hotel,
two blocks away,
to say he couldn't see me;

that he wouldn't risk his new wife's
disapproval.

And so, that Father's Day
I hung up in mid-dial.

We never spoke again:
his lawyer called --
less than a month later --
to tell me he was gone,
dead of a disease I didn't even know he had.

Each year on Father's Day,
I find myself
staring out that window and remembering
the year I didn't call my dad
on Father's Day.