A NUMBER IN THE UPPER PENINSULA

My mom handed me the phone. I could hear television(mezzo-piano) noises. My dad always called from my uncle’s living room—that’s where my dad was sleeping now, when my dad wasn’t working at the repair shop.

“Cold there?” my dad(forte) said.

“Sort of,” I(mezzo-forte) said.

“Cold here,” my dad(forte) said.

Neither of us said anything for a while. My mom walked past with flowers for the piano. She was wearing a black cardigan over a gray shirt.

“School alright?” my dad(forte) said.

He sounded tired. I could hear the workweek in his voice. He doesn’t know anything about music, doesn’t know anything about math. Whatever language I speak, my dad speaks something different. Still, we had to try. Even if we couldn’t understand each other, there seemed to be something important about just getting to hear each other’s voices.

I stared through the window at my brother the tree.

“School’s okay,” I(mezzo-piano) said.

I waited for him to say it, before he hung up, but he didn’t say it.