We Made It Right

Eleven years of silence.
One phone call ended it.
(we made it right)

My brother and I stopped speaking
over money and a will;
two stubborn oaks, one mother's table,
eleven Christmases gone still.
Then the call came on a Tuesday:
"It's his heart. You'd better come."
I drove four states through the midnight
rehearsing "I was wrong."

All that pride I'd been defending
weighed nothing at his door;
whatever we were fighting over,
I couldn't tell you anymore.

We made it right —
two gray men crying in fluorescent light.
Eleven years dissolved in one "I'm sorry" —
don't wait for the phone call. Make it right.

Made it right. (finally)
At his door. (family)
don't wait for the phone call. Make it right.

He woke up on the third morning,
saw me sleeping in the chair,
said, "You still snore like Papa" —
and eleven years thinned to air.
We talked about the fishing cabin,
about Mama's Sunday rolls;
turns out we'd both kept every photograph —
two archives of one whole.

All that pride I'd been defending
weighed nothing at his door;
whatever we were fighting over,
I couldn't tell you anymore.

We made it right —
two gray men crying in fluorescent light.
Eleven years dissolved in one "I'm sorry" —
don't wait for the phone call. Make it right.

Truth is, forgiveness was sitting in my driveway for a decade,
engine running, waiting on my pride to grab a coat.
If there's a name you can't say without your jaw tightening —
that's the door. That's your Tuesday.
Go before the phone does.

Mm. (the driveway)
Mm. (the coat)
(go before the phone does)

We made it right —
two gray men crying in fluorescent light.
Eleven years dissolved in one "I'm sorry" —
don't wait for the phone call. Make it right.

He's coming for Thanksgiving.
Bringing Mama's roll recipe. We both had it all along.
(we made it right)