His New Twin Daughters

Even now, after all these years, my father, 89, still uncertain when I call whose voice it is—Ann's or mine— saying Hi, Dad, and from where, the next town or a different state, still pausing in that powdered air, this little silence as he waits at the nursery door, discerning tone and pitch, listening hard to know which way to bend, which crib, the one against the wall or by the window, still concentrating, trying to keep us separate, our needs, do whatshe would, letting my mother sleep, this moment's blank as he's about to choose between us, make some shift in the soft-lit dark, decide whose cry it is tonight, which girl to lift, to whisper or hum, which lullaby.