Dial Tone

Nam Hoang Tran

Huguenot Cemetery. pinterest.

Visiting a cemetery was not how I originally envisioned kick-starting a restful winter break. There were maybe three other families, besides my mother and I, wrapped so densely in winter gear that only their eyes peered through the fabric. Six feet from the entrance was my grandfather’s headstone, nestled under a large elm with its leafless arms stretched towards the overcast sky. After a brief walk, we stood before the slab of granite. "Hello, Grandfather. Nice to see you again. I wanted to call, but things became very busy. Please, forgive me." We hadn't spoken very much before, and it was no different now. Upon realizing I wasn't getting an answer, I started back towards the car. Perhaps he is just tired. When his eyes are well-rested, maybe then he will speak to me. The following morning, I rose at seven o'clock sharp and called my grandfather. As always, he did not pick up. Perhaps I am calling too early, that's all. I have been saying this for the past seven years, hoping one day he will be awake long enough to call back and ask me how I am.

Nam Hoang Tran is a writer residing in Orlando, FL. His work appears or is forthcoming in The Daily Drunk, Star 82 Review, Bending Genres, (mac)ro(mic), and elsewhere. @nam.htran