​Transmitting


He would sit in the kitchen 
mother and me in the living room.
The wall prevented things, slight
reception through open door, if it ever was. 

You would have to listen to hear.
As he gave us statements that lingered,
he was on a different wave to us both.
A crackling fuzz sometimes echoed. 

He was somewhere we could not see.
Tuning in with him was tough.
Only now, as his voice has weakened,
does he listen. The once strong wind

that came from afar, now just a zephyr
whispering slowly away, slowly away.