In December, the month he died, my dad called me almost every day. This was a violation of our previous arrangement: speaking briefly every few months, mostly about the weather. I’d watch the phone light up with his name, buzzing with neediness that made me embarrassed for him. My father was always a private man. Private in the way that fathers strive to be when protecting who they are from their children. As far as I understood my father was perfect, impenetrable, difficult to please.
I’d often let it ring in the silent apartment and try to imagine why he was calling if he had nothing to say.