I knew what was going on.
I just couldn’t understand it.
I don’t understand it today.
I doubt I ever will.
And what’s more,
I don’t want to.
There is innocence in ignorance,
And I need to keep that innocence alive inside.
The innocence of a phone call, and knowing who was
On the other line.
All along, I knew.
I don’t understand how.
I don’t want to.
It is real, and I knew, and that’s enough.

*    *    *

The phone rang.
I was sitting on the couch
In front of the TV.  
My grandma answered.
I don’t remember anything about what she said.
Not a single word.
I remember that I stopped watching TV and I listened.
But everything she said is gone.  
Almost everything else about that day is gone, too.
It’s foggy.  Blurs of colors.  Muffled noises.  
All except the five minutes after my grandma
Handed the phone to me.
She was crying.
I remember that.

*    *    *

I walked into the dining room.
I walked slowly.
My grandma was standing near the table.
I remember that the day was gray and cold
It was New Years’ Day.
There was an awkward light in the room.
But maybe that’s just time working on me.
My grandma handed me the phone, and
I knew.
I knew that my mom was on the other end.
I knew what she was going to say.

*    *    *

“Honey, your daddy is dying.”
That’s what she said.
She was crying, too, along with my grandma.
I didn’t cry.
Not that day.  Not even that night when I fell asleep for the first time
Without a daddy.
I don’t remember that night very well.
But I remember that I didn’t cry.

*    *    *

“Honey, your daddy is dying.”
That’s what she said.
Of course I knew he was.
He coughed all the time.
Enough so he had to get up and leave church most Sundays.
I don’t go to church much anymore.
I didn’t understand death.
I still don’t.
But I knew my daddy was dying.
He was dying when we wrestled on the floor.
And he was still able to laugh and say that he loved me.
He was very strong.

*    *    *

“Honey, your daddy is dying.”
That’s what she said.
She doesn’t think so, now, though.
But I know what I heard.
My mom says it can’t be possible that she said, “…is dying.”
Because he was already gone when she called.
She had just made it to his side.
But I know what I heard.
And I remember my grandma’s hand on my shoulder.

*    *    *

That phone call happened when I was six.
A long time ago.
Time has erased the beginning and end of that day,
But the five minutes that killed my daddy have remained
As clear as a bright blue sky.
My mind will not let them go.
I hope it holds them forever.
Because those minutes shape who I am.
Because the six-year-old who lived through those minutes
Is still inside.
He still doesn’t understand death.
Or how he knew what was going to happen.
As long as he is there, my daddy is there.
And as long as my daddy is inside me,
I am happy.

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