My father calls me every week, usually on Sundays, around 3, after he’s gone to the grocery store and picked up a roast or some chicken or maybe crabmeat, if it’s on sale. He’ll make a nice meal for my stepmom and himself, she’ll do the dishes and then he’ll go lay down in the bed they’ve shared for more than 40 years. But first, he’ll let out a heavy sigh, he’ll call out loud, “Hey, Sand, I’m going to take a nap.” He’ll take out the hearing aids he’s needed for decades longer than he’s worn them, and curiously, just as he’s easing into his rest, he’ll pick up the phone and call me. This won’t be a conversation, because he won’t hear my responses, but he’ll talk. He’ll tell me about the meatballs he made, with a little rice and tomato sauce inside like his mother, Basha, used to make. He’ll tell me about Fareed Zakaria on channel 19 and ask me for the umpeenth time if I’ve watched it, thought he knows I no longer have cable, and if I did, the channels are different here in VA. My dad’s in Florida, of course. Flaarida. He’ll tell me about the stock market and he’ll sigh again as his beloved Nvidia has taken a dive. He won’t ask me any questions, as he knows there’s but much I’ll share with him anyway, since the divorce. I think he’s waiting to hear me say that I’m gay, why else would my marriage have ended? But I’m not. It ended because it was over. The same as it did between him and my mom. But he doesn’t really get it. And besides, he wouldn’t hear my explanation anyway. 

My dad calls me once a week. He’s 93. How many calls could we have left? 100? 150, maybe?

If we’re both incredibly lucky? 

Tomorrow is Sunday. I think I’ll go sit by the phone.