So you wait and watch and worry and plan because the reply that comes, must come, around 7 or 8 will be that much more monumental, you watching the end of the universe and the sound of a rotary phone ringtone leaving the whole thing moot. You think your parents have never held more weight than they do now, as you turn your face into the fan, humming the way you did when you were little, hearing your voice get caught up in the blades and fly into the sweat-soaked living room you grew up in, everything wet and curling in the Louisiana air, your parents in their respective chairs watching you out of the corner of their vision, bright and alive with a love that held.
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