conversations with my father

I think about my conversations with my father, about the things we don't talk about, the things we avoid, like his past, like his childhood, like the things that hurt him. I think about the way he changes the subject, the way he deflects, the way he becomes quiet, and I feel a sense of frustration, like I'm trying to get to something, like I'm trying to understand him. I think about the way I talk to him, about the questions I ask, about the way I try to get him to open up, and I feel a sense of guilt, like I'm prying, like I'm intruding. I don't know, maybe I'm just not asking the right questions, maybe I'm just not listening. I think about the way we communicate, about the way we use language, about the way we avoid talking about the things that matter, and I feel a sense of sadness, like we're missing out, like we're losing something. I think about the Urdu words that we use, the way they feel in English sentences, like they're guests at a party, tolerated but not really welcome, and I think, maybe this is what it means to be a family, to be connected by these threads of language and culture, even as we're drifting apart. I think about the silences, the gaps between our words, the things we don't say, and I feel a sense of wonder, like I'm discovering something, like I'm uncovering a secret.