LONG DISTANCE by KEN ARMSTRONG
He called me again last night, just like he always does. It was after three in the morning when the phone finally rang. I was not asleep. I lifted the handset and listened. As always, it was a poor connection. My father's voice sounded hollow and tired and very far away.
He said, "Do you know what day it is?"
"I haven't forgotten", I said, "I've bought flowers for the grave."
There was silence then, at the mention of graves, as well there should be.
The phone had woken Teddy. She raised a tired eyebrow at me and I nodded and waved her towards the tape machine in the corner. She padded over and set it running.
"How is the weather?" My father asked and I told him, just as I always do. I rarely bother to ask him questions anymore. For many years, I was encouraged to do so but it was always a tiresome business. Never a great one for dialogue, Dad has now simply given up responding to my queries altogether. When he calls, all he does is persist with his own inane and pointless line of questioning. Always the same questions, always the same day every year.
The anniversary of his death.
© Ken Armstrong 1994