we never talked about things like the birds and the bees or why the sky was blue or what was making me hurt so badly i couldn’t eat, but my father would sing to me, at night, especially when storms thundered the skies and i’ll always remember his voice, the way he sang the things he couldn’t say

and there’s something about a song that makes you believe in the goodness of God
something about a father singing to his child that glides effortless over the sin in the world

and when he called yesterday to wish me a happy birthday and sang it to me in unfaltering tenor and mum’s sweet soprano wove round like a streamer it breathed love to me, the kind of love that cannot be spoken no matter the sum of words