Conversations With My Father
Holly Day
​
there’s a moment of silence and the questions
push their way into my head, was I loved as a child, was I
the mistake I always felt like, why did I
always feel so alone. it’s a familiar plug
 
in the lull, and I rush to fill the gaping hole
with more talk about the weather, my job
my own children and the bright things they’re doing.
I don’t talk about what it was like
 
stumbling across his neatly-typed suicide notes
coming home to an empty house after school
the nights I spent alone, wondering where my parents were
wondering if it was all my fault.