Your dad handed me a box of Frosted Flakes
as he said, "they're great!" in a comically deep voice,
accompanied by the swing of a folded arm.

I laughed in that manner in which anyone laughs at dad jokes:
half heartedly, with a lazy smile.

The crunching of sugary flakes filled the room,
much like your morose mood.
I quietly ate a bowl of cereal,
and watched your face drown in a flood of regret.

I asked why you were so quiet
as you walked me to the guest room that night.
You said you had not spoken to your father in 4 years,
and had forgotten how he used to make you laugh.

You kissed my forehead
and headed towards your childhood bedroom.