The Call

Dad sits at the kitchen table and leafs through The Times, and waits for the kettle to whistle, and waits for the ring, the call. In the family room, uncle fiddles with Mozart on the white keys while sister gazes out the window and looks for the Dipper. They wait for the ring, the call. In Dad's favorite, brown chair, brother looks through the scores of meaningless games and waits for the ring, the call. I sit on my bed tracing the cracks in the ceiling, they form a Christmas stocking. I wait for the ring, the call. One ring, one call. In my room, the only light comes from the sky, and hits the floor in front of me. Dad wipes my eyes with his damp tissue, and says He has taken him to somewhere good, to become everyone's Grandpa.