“Dad,” I directed, playing with the fringes that dangled off the loose tablecloth. “We need to talk. My father sat across from me, only a coffee table away.  He peered up at me; his soft chocolate eyes held by the crows’ feet that spread their way across his upper face. His forehead creased in thought and as he inhaled, his nostrils twitched. Old age had not been kind to him.

       “Hmm?” he prompted.  He reached across the table and took my hand into his. I felt the slight shake of hands and as I looked down, than back up at him, I noticed him wince at the pain. His arthritis had gotten worse.

       I gulped nervously.

       “A month from now will be the anniversary of mom’s death.”

       “Yes,” he said kindly yet solemnly.

       “And well–,” I stopped there, suddenly at the realization that I didn’t know what to say. He had lived his whole life in this house, from childhood until now. How could I ask him to leave the only thing he truly possessed? “—And I think we should go visit her grave together.” I lied.  Dad eyed me suspiciously, making me wonder if what I had lied about had been too obvious. Did he really see through me?

       “I like that idea,” was all he said.   I let his fragile, bony fingers slip through my hands as he leaned back in his chair. He seemed distant, as if something beyond any of us was present. He weakly tapped his toes to the beat of one of his records that softly played in the background. This familiar song had been mom’s favorite.  I didn’t know what to say to him. Things were just—well—awkward between us.  Not that we didn’t talk to each other or that we didn’t talk about certain subjects. No, I talked to him about everything. It was just that…ever since her death, silence had not been a good ally to both my father and I.