Your father has been having chest pains, she says across the line, her normally stoic voice tinged with just a quiver of concern. It's a conversation no one wants to be having, but the acknowledgment that it might be time to go to the country clinic passes over it like a relief. By evening, they've sent him to the big hospital in the other valley, he sends pictures of snowy mountain views but every message is an exercise in carrying hope. You find yourself distracted at every turn, a gnawing sense of unease in the periphery. Your mother eyes her ticket to New York and you both tread quietly around what you already know.
Life waxes and wanes across your to do list. This is how it is meant to be. You, yourself, wax and wane across the plans you had for yourself, after all.
We are but leaves in the wind.
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