When the telephone rings, my father does not recognize the name. It has been more than sixty-five years since they graduated together from college. Donald describes an incident—“You turned around, looked back at me, and said, ‘You should really read Madame Bovary’” – that my father does not recall, though to me it sounds exactly like something he might have said.
Donald asks what my father has been doing – for almost seven decades? My father says he will email a résumé that chronicles his life. (I wonder why my father, approaching ninety, still maintains an up-to-date résumé.) Donald promises to mail my father something that explains his line of work. It never arrives.
flutter of wings
in bare branches