“Is this yours?” Taking the paper from the fax machine, I offered it to Ann who stood wearing a faraway expression. The turn of her head didn’t allow time for her eyes to catch up.
“Yeah?” She wasn’t sure. The roadmap of lines around her mouth deepened along with curve of her back as she pursed thin lips in concentration. Her perpetually smudged eyeglasses slid, slightly, from their crooked perch on the bridge of her nose.
“I don’t know…”, she sighed. One gnarled hand shifted the paper, moving it just a little further away. Age shook her voice as she continued. “I can’t focus…I just move from one thing to another.”
“Like a butterfly!”, I exclaimed.
Rheumy eyes met mine.
“I do it, too! I flit from one thing to the next, just like a butterfly…” Smiling, I waved my fingers in her direction.
“A butterfly…I like that…I’m a butterfly!” Her back straightened slightly as she brought the paper to her chest.
Yes, you are, Miss Ann. Yes, you are…
Are We There Yet? 