Doodle doodle doodle doo doo doot! my father’s cell phone summoned him mid-sentence. I knew that the call took precedence over me, so I turned my attention to the passing scenery and he said hello to some voice that meant more than me. I hated that voice, whoever it was. My dad postpones heart-to-heart talks for a phone call; whatever pressing news that little apparatus contains is far more important. I was in the middle of a perpetual pity party when he hung up and said, “that was Eric. Man, they are struggling. You know, his wife Jane’s sister is dying of pancreatic cancer – it’s spread to her liver and her lungs. She only has months.” I looked at the floor and he continued: “I can’t imagine what they’re going through.” I turned to him. “Yes, you can,” I said, “your sister died of cancer, too.” I could only stare at him. Why did I say that? As if he needed reminding. Suddenly I wanted to know everything about it (I was little when it happened), but I didn’t say anything. He did: “It changes your entire life. It blows a hole in your future.” I wanted to say I was sorry, but even though I was, that had little relevance at that moment. We sat there. And I realized why we didn’t try to discuss our emotions. We really couldn’t. You see, it was the first time the phone hadn’t interrupted us. And we didn’t know what to do with ourselves.