He Ate Today

Werner rang me twice tonight.

Seven pm. From dad's landline. I knew it was him before I picked up. "Did you call him?" "Not yet." "You going to?" "Tomorrow." I have said tomorrow so much it does not sound like a word anymore. It is just the sound my mouth makes when I am scared.

Nine pm. From his own flat. He told me dad ate today. The way he said it, quiet, I knew there was more. I asked. He said dad is thinner than the Christmas card. That card is the only dad I still have in my head. I have not seen him in too long.

I asked if dad knows I am in Joburg. Werner said no.

I sat on the bed. I wrote him again. Three parts. Same last word at the end. I did not send it. I did not unsend it. That gap is all I moved today.

I am one hour from him. He does not even know I am here.