“Do you have to go?” I ask quietly, watching his face for any sign of the same misery I felt.
“You know I do.” His grave reply was almost enough. There was regret in his eyes, but I couldn’t help the voice screaming inside me that he couldn’t understand. How could he? I’d never told him how much I had come to rely on seeing his face to make living bearable.
Sometimes, I was certain he thought I was simple. Because I said so little. I asked so little. Often just sitting near him and sharing the air. I’m sure he thought I had nothing to say.
I have so much to say.
I just knew in the way that I knew many things, an intuition passed from my mother and mother’s mother, that he’d always had enough of people talking at him. Desperate for his affection.
So was I. But mine was in silence.
And in two days, he would be gone.
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