Voices on the Wind Voices on Waiting
Waiting by Phyllis Wax From full to a silver canoe and back she watches the moon and waits. Night into day she listens for the knock, for the click of the beckoning finger and waits. Days ooze into weeks, months. She closes her eyes, melts into memory. Her mother lets her lick batter from a mixing bowl; her husband, home from work, puts his arms about her; she pulls Bobbie on his sled. It hurts not to stay with them. Her eyes flicker open. Disoriented, she looks around the room, half in the gauzy here, half in the more solid past. Her jaws clench. She wonít eat lunch. No more. Iím ninety-eight. Iíve had enough. Reflexively she clamps her teeth to an invisible rope, hopes the sliver of moon will tow her away.