We have pitched camp by the small lake, dad and I.
The sky is white, offers not the slightest help with a script.
All that can be heard is nervous mosquitoes,
and crackling and hissing from the fire
where dad is grilling char in greased paper.
This silence among the mountains
takes in our years of silence and distance –
years he likes to believe in brackets.
His hands fumble with a lack of language –
are trying of course to find words that repair
what has never been able to be repaired.
We are dark in the white night
as if we were film negatives.
He smiles a bit vaguely as he hands me the coffee.
But his grey-blue eyes are helpless.