My father was calling at twenty to ten.​
I knew something was wrong.​
He'd usually be in bed by now, and besides, he rarely called.​
"Sweetheart, have you seen the news?" he said.​
I could hear a lump, lodged in his throat.​
"What news?" I asked coolly, trying to remain composed.​
Who had died?​
What catastrophe had unfolded when I wasn't looking?​
"Notre Dame..." he choked "...it's nearly all gone."​
I could have sworn he'd been crying.​
"Oh yeah, I saw. It's...terrible."​
And it was terrible, watching the steeple collapse - ​
It was -​
But what could I do about it?​
"I...I remember you saying...you wanted to go to Paris."​
"Yeah I did."​
That was months ago. ​
We both fell silent, perhaps if I tried to sound a little sadder...​
"Were you asleep?" he asked.​
"No. I was just...I had my tooth taken out today."​
"Oh, you're a little spaced from the drugs" he excused away my indifference.​
"Yeah, sorry" I said.​
But I knew the drugs had worn off hours ago.​
"Well I'll let you go then."​
The words waivered - he needed me, and I didn't know what to say about any of it.​
"Ok Dad. Lots of love."​
He hung up the phone.​
In the silence of the room 'it's nearly all gone' rang out.​
It rang like a church bell for the rest of the night as I thought about the steeple.​
​
