Talking

“What are you doing these days for work?“ he asked.
“I’ve been working for the chiropractor, you remember? Doing insurance billing? And Christian and I have been going out for almost a year now,“ I told him. My throat was almost closing, I was so happy to actually be talking to him.
“Which one is Christian again?“ He asked, a little confused.
“He’s the one with the beard? The computer guy? Remember you guys talked about computers when I took you down to my house?“ Dad always remembered Christian’s beard for some reason. “My cats are doing well, too. You remember Angus, the big orange striped guy? And Barney, our big grey cat? They’re both happy.”
“Oh, right, right, you told me that. Well, good.“ He looked down at the newspaper in his hand while I sat for a minute, just looking at him. I used to rage about the fact that he never asked me how I was. When we sat and talked, I would bring up things I had been doing, anything new in my life. But what I longed for more than anything was for him to actually ask me about my life.
We sat for a little longer, talking when we felt like it; occasionally he would repeat the same question or offer the same advice. It felt so good to sit there with him and actually converse. His emotions were so much closer now to the surface, and I could tell from the way his eyes welled up that he was enjoying spending time with me. I knew he likely wouldn’t remember anything I told him, but at least I felt his interest. I heard the words I had yearned to hear for a long time, and I finally got to share myself with him - just a little bit.