He doesn’t so much sit as drape a chair; filling it with athletic grace. His head lies cradled in the receiver as he drags one sturdy hand through a day’s growth. His eyes squint, unseeing, as his own mortality supersedes the flashing image on the other side of the room.
“Have you thought about marriage?”
I push my hair behind my ear as I cross, hurriedly, into the next room. A familiar irony fills me.
My hand holds the same telephone, in the same room, in the same chair. My daughter’s voice comes through the receiver, and, as my hand parts my hair, I ask my question.
“Is this what you really want?”
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Are We There Yet? 
