Cables breaking free
Over a suspension bridge
Dust prepares to fly
I could only connect over a telephone wire, but I felt the need to vocalize my father’s fugitive words. If he wasn’t brave enough to say it, I would. “I’m sorry.” I offered up a family cup that had been spilled, hoping at least to wet Grandma’s lips.
“I know,” Grandma steadily replied. “I know he is, even if he doesn’t say it. He holds my hand the entire time we talk and he kisses it before he goes. He really blesses me.”
I wished I could have kissed her soft fleshy cheek right then, but I couldn’t.
“He’s my son, and I love him.” Grandma’s words were emphatic.
And just like that—Grandma buried the hatchet.