there's 289 miles between me and my dad
and a phone call connecting us.

the thread of conversation stretches from the office kitchen,
through the cobbled city streets and
over the channel,
down the motorways, the carriageways
until it reaches smaller towns,
bare winter trees,
a small lake with ducks floating and birds chirping.

he's crying.
he never cries.
he never calls, not in the middle of the day.
his voice wavers in time with my shaking hands and the trembling surface of the coffee in my mug.

i'm an hour ahead but time feels frozen.
those 289 miles are melting away with every garbled sentence he utters.
the man who used to hold me on his shoulders is probably
crumpled over the kitchen table, coffee growing cold.
mine's cold now too.

he's 289 miles away from me.
i'm years away from him.
we're holding tight to a string of grief,
two ends of a tin can phone,
crying together.
and i am still his baby.
and i still have him.

his dad was 331 miles away.
now he's in the sky.
intangible.

i can hear the birds chirping.
i can hear the lake rippling.
i can hear his heart breaking.
he was someone's baby once.
the miles between us mean nothing.

he cries for his dad
and i cry for him,
cradling the phone like a newborn.