Uncertain

You look so small
sitting in your chair 
hunched over the dining table
slurping soup.

It's Friday night,
you should have 
been expecting us,
but clearly
you weren't.

Hi,  I say 
with false brightness.
Did you give up on us?
I lean over 
to give you a hug
then sit 
in the chair
next to you.

You mumble 
something
and I lean closer
to hear,
wishing I hadn't.
The story you tell
makes no sense,
at least
not to me.

We should go,
our son waits
at home,
but I 
can't leave you
at that table
alone.
So we
stay.

We sit,
drowning in silence,
watching you
slowly eat
the rest of your soup
and move on to
your salad.

When you speak
it's of movies
never made,
of people
who haven't visited,
of conversations
that haven't been 
spoken.
I play along
and smile
as my heart
grows heavier.

I pick
my brain,
searching for
conversations
we can have,
things I can say
that focus on
the here and now,
things that
are true 
and real.

You follow along
then tell me
Something's happened to Dad.
Thinking I've misheard
I ask you to repeat
Your father. Something must have
happened to him.

And I don't know
what to say.
How do I look into
your uncertain eyes
and say 
Dad is dead?
It's been almost
five years,
but saying it
would make it
seem like it was
happening all over 
again
for you
and for me.

Dad's fine,
I say,
hoping it's true,
that in some 
other dimension
Dad is fine,
watching over us,
patiently waiting for
you.

You look at me 
suspiciously.
Are you sure?
I sit silently
for I am
certain of nothing 
anymore.