He calls after the Packer game on Sunday, initiating our dialog as always. “Hi, Tom.” I envision him speaking into the mouthpiece of the black desk phone that’s occupied a TV tray beside his recliner since my youth. “So, how is it then?”

“Can’t complain, Dad.” My stock reply. “You?”

The line is silent except for a rhythmic scratching that I recognize as his compulsive picking at the frayed arm of the old La-Z-Boy. “Some days good, some days not so. I’m feeling pretty chipper today,” his voice fluttering slightly, like a discount kite poised to fold up with the next substantial gust. I wait for the inevitable. “That damned Maytag.” 

And there it is. Dad’s weekly ration of mourning. His domestic references to Mother’s passing are as oblique as parables. I embrace each as it arrives, weighing it against my own capacity for grief. Last Sunday, he despaired over detached shirt buttons and the thinning weft on the heels of his socks. The previous week, he complained the mattress had grown so lumpy he now slept on the sofa, or rather “couch” as they say in Wisconsin. 

Today, it’s the washer. “The directions are impossible. So many frigging options. Easier to just go to the coin-op.” 

Any friend of my father—Fix-it Phil as he’s known—couldn’t imagine a simple washing machine would befuddle their retired engineer friend. But I know the true source of his complaints—the terror of accidentally reaching over and feeling the vacant depression on Mother’s half of the mattress or trespassing into her old domain, the laundry room.

I want to tell him, “It’s all right to miss Mom,” that I miss her too. But my Badger-state father hails from that generation who suffer from congenital stoicism—a chronic denial passed down through so many generations it seems spliced into our DNA. It’s his right to deal with this burden however he chooses, even if it means transferring it to his eldest son one call at a time. Still, I wonder how many more of these transactional conversations we’ll have until his entire inventory of grief is depleted.

“Did you watch the game?” he asks. 

“I got wrapped up in a work project.” The innocent lie is easier than confessing that football no longer interests me. “Did the Pack win?”

“They pulled it out at the last minute,” he says. “That new QB is okay.”

This welcome topical detour dead-ends shortly. “Tom, I don’t remember anybody’s birthday.” 

Birthdays. That had been one of Mother’s responsibilities. She did laundry, kept house, and remembered birthdays. He won the metaphorical bread, maintained the cars, and tamed their acre of lawn. Theirs were four-plus decades of rote division of labor and ritual cooperation. Shared routine: a love that burns at a lower temperature but burns nonetheless.

“I don’t see how you can stand Seattle. All that damn rain.” His way of urging me back to Milwaukee.

“I prefer six months of rain over three of freezing my ass.” I instantly regret my knee-jerk reply.

“Are you attending church out there?” 

“No, not yet.”

“I started back at First Baptist. It’s been such a help for me since, well, you know—these days.”

His self-conscious witnessing smacks more of obligation than conviction and supports my suspicion that religion and faith don’t always cohabitate. 

Before our conversation can deteriorate into obligatory small talk and expansive silences, we say goodbye with the stiff exchange of “Love ya, buddy.” As has become the tradition, he stays on the line until I hang up. 

I return to my reading, hoping it will supplant the image of my mother’s widower wandering around their house, carefully avoiding her laundry room with the old Maytag and its intimidating, esoteric settings: Delicate, Heavy Soil, Extra Rinse.

About the Author:

Michael Propsom is a guitar maker with a BA in Social Work from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. His work has been published by various magazines including The Saturday Evening Post online, Berkeley Fiction Review, Ponder Review, and Wisconsin Review. He has received two Pushcart Prize nominations. 

*Feature image by Noah Silliman on Unsplash