What You Gave Me, Anna

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You told me once—
in a voice so still it felt like dusk—
that your father spent time like loose change,
as if it could be earned back
by effort or apologies
or showing up too late with cake.

You said he missed birthdays,
a play where you forgot your line,
graduation—
all for something urgent,
something sharp-suited and loud with teeth.

And always, he said,
I’ll make it up to you.
As if time were a drawer
you could open when things quiet down.
As if presence could be promised like a paycheck.

Years later, just you and him,
the sky doing that soft orange thing
like it forgave everything,
and he said—
not to you,
not even to himself,
just to the space between you—
I thought I’d have more time.

You didn’t answer.
Because what would you say to a man
who finally realized you can’t refund a childhood?

You told me this, Anna,
not with a cracked voice,
but with eyes steady—
like someone who had learned
not just to carry the story,
but to live the lesson.

And then you said:
Now I choose time.

Over pride.
Over the long email thread.
Over the voice in your head
that says you’ll call them tomorrow.

And Anna,
you didn’t just tell me a story.
You handed me a clock without hands,
a promise shaped like a second chance.

And now, because of you,
I answer my phone,
I sit longer in rooms with people I love,
I count the light before it leaves the window.

You gave me that.
You.
And the story you had to live to teach me.