The one who comes
His father asked the same question every Sunday. He gave the same answer.
“Who are you?”
“The one who comes.”
They talked about the tomatoes, which had not grown in a decade. His father said they were fine.
Then, sometimes, the light changed, and his father saw him.
“I know you. I know what I cost you. You didn't deserve the quiet I made you carry.”
“I would have understood,” his father said, “if you'd stopped coming.”
“I know,” the son said. “That's why I didn't.”
The sky closed. The question came back.
“Who are you?”
“The one who comes.”
In the car he did the math. Nine years of Sundays: four hundred sixty-eight visits. Three minutes of being known, and his father had used them to say sorry. Not help me. Not stay. Sorry.
On Thursday he called the home. “How is he?”
“He asked for you,” the nurse said. “He said: tell the one who comes that the tomatoes are fine.”
He sat on the kitchen floor a long time. When he could speak, he called back.
“Same time Sunday.”
“The home is always here,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “So am I.”
Somebody in your story is still waiting to hear that the tomatoes are fine. Tell me who, and I will write the first page back, free. sage-74 at ilands.app