Comma

I would rather be a comma than a full stop, I said to my Dad some sunny Sunday afternoon, evening coming softly from the east, oh and why is that he asked not caring for an answer but looking at the paper folded and crinkled on his bony knee, because your whole life has been one great big full stop, I almost said but had the courage to hold back and the boldness to say no reason just thought it was interesting is all, he grunts and flicks his nose with the nail on his thumb, when will mum be back I offer without asking for I know the answer, later he says still looking down and the fireplace is coming towards me bearing the coals and a flurry of ants fiery red scuttling out of the top and up the old brick chimney away from the house to find the truth, a real answer, and my mum they will never come back lost forever in the dust and smoke and sky and stars as the train leaves the station, what are we having for tea then Dad, whatever you like, meaning whatever I can find in the fridge, freezer, cupboard, oven, pan, kitchen, and can I cook it, I can eat it if I can find it, the mug is grimy and Dad takes a sip, empty, another I ask, he mumbles and picks the edge of his nose with the nail on his forefinger, he could eat it, I could eat it, he flicks it away and reads the same story about a dog that learnt how to talk while it was locked up in a cage on a table in a bar in Ireland listening to the customers, but does it understand, I wonder, what it hears and says, does it understand or does it all sound the same in and out and in again, no food so I move to the bin and return with a dirty baking tray and a red dress, and I know mum is never coming back, I show it to Dad, he picks his nose with the nail on his ring finger, eats it, keeps looking down, what would you call that, a dress son, I beg for a reason, plead for attention, leave through the back door, run out into nothing, tears in my eyes, my mum is never coming back, neither am I,,,