Contemplation

Her father sits in quiet despondency, eyes fixed on a dying oil lamp perched on the corner of his table, no doubt where he has elbowed it absentmindedly while reading the book in front of him. But he seems to have no interest in the book; he does not even glance at the contents of its pages, but keeps his dark eyes on the lamp. He shifts slightly in his seat, his gaze unwavering, and the lamp begins to tilt. She leaps forward to catch it and rights it several inches from the table’s corner.

“Father?” she says.

Her father does not respond, he watches the space previously occupied by the lamp. The light is dying and the shadows in his face make him appear older than he is, though he has never disclosed his true age to her and she often cannot guess beyond a five year age range.

“Father?” she says again.

Her father seems to waken. His eyes move first, sliding from the lamp and coming to rest on her face. Slowly he sits up.

Text by Lucie MacAulay