Portrait of My Father Doing Nothing

He sits in the chair by the window,

not reading,

not watching anything,

just sitting.

I ask if he's okay.

He says "I'm thinking."

I ask what about.

He says "nothing."

I don't understand this yet.

The sitting.

The nothing.

The way it seems to be enough.

But I'm starting to.

In small ways.

Usually on Sundays.

Usually by the window.