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RUIKO HIGA
twelve ‘o four in the a.m. weather--brisk unusual for Los Angeles message light blinking my father the message plays as I snap windows shut and my father's voice fills the room a deep, gargled mumbling leaving me still surprised attentive my partner understands nothing eyes finding mine, confused a beat, then a smile it’s your father straining to catch a phrase saying something or the other a look towards me what did he say? he wants me to call him back in the kitchen dinner thrown in pots I'm nervous suddenly rehearsing lines in between silences my partner looks up eyes--expressive I like your father another silence nothing to say, to do except drop my stare to threads of angel-hair slowly thickening I think we should spend some time with him more silence how do you explain methods developed over years the how-to-manual, essentially on dealing with the alcoholic that phone-calls get post-poned till morning when he’s sober that messages get replayed to decipher states of mind that words get decoded the message is brief call me when you get home then silence TV noise in the background and the phone goes dead how do you explain that it’s twelve o’ four that he’s hunched over from heroine that words spill through slurred speech that he’s vomiting close to vomiting that he’s swaying off his seat from unsound mixtures of drugs and alcohol or to explain that at twelve o’ four he needs me most to quell the demons the voices that I cannot be there will not be there that I will not give him what he's looking for to get him through the night to get him stronger that I will wait (as I always do) till morning when he’s sober enough and clean enough to remember |
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