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
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