He watched her dust blond hair reflected on her sallow face, her rheumy eyes that once could mesmerize show early wear. He felt her mother fall into their daughter’s life, eroding the magnetic gift. He tried once in the car alone with her to say that life cannot be a celebration all the time. He watched her not hear him, and for a change, say nothing. He was always half afraid of her. So like him, she was the only one who stood up to him and disagreed to his face. He knew she could earn anything she set her mind to. Had already aced a succession of milestones. He saw her mother’s stalled eyes. The shared approach to lifting away. Constantly choosing that liquid getaway to blear. His daughter, his hope. But that gene. He had to watch her reach for distance and find a simple way. He still believed. Hoped what he saw would go away.
.
Sheila E. Murphy
.