Hey y’all,
It has been wet and dreary in Austin. I suppose that is better than icy, or snowy, or sleety, or whatever. But you have to keep in mind that I am from Florida—a swamp creature with no sense of anything besides oppressive humidity and hurricanes. The rain here is not the rain I am used to. Where I’m from, you can tell when it’s going to rain because the sky feels dangerously low and thick; the rain is great relief. Here, it’s just suddenly wet.
Speaking of inclement weather, today’s poem is about my father. Well, I should back up: my father is an electrical worker, which means he was (and is) always sent out to do repairs after extreme weather. Hurricanes were always bad—sometimes I wouldn’t see him for a couple weeks, especially if he had to go to another part of the state. He has worked there for nearly forty years.
I don’t know what else to say right now about that, or him, so here’s the poem.
Love,
KJ
formula
i called my father last week for his sixtieth birthday.
there wasn’t much to this conversation
that hadn’t been part of any other phone talk we’ve
had over the past ten years or so.
you’ve had these conversations before, too. there’s
nothing to be maudlin about here.
we are always in orbit, all of us, and sometimes all
we have for gravitational pull
are the same words pinged back and forth. “i’m here:
are you here?” “yes, i’m here: are you
well?” “yes, i’m well: is the car okay?” “yes, the car
is okay: is it cold there?” we transmit a yes
endlessly because yes is what keeps us from truly
calculating our distance, the speed.
toward the end, my father asked if my job gave me
enough to save for retirement. i said no.
he paused, the formula finally in front of him. “but
buddy, you aren’t getting any younger.”