The Call

The Call          

    My son called last night. A member of our armed forces, he lives half the continent away. We don’t talk often. A mother’s memories rush in and I am weepy with happiness at hearing his voice.
    After the initial pleasantries and catching up he gets to the point.
    “How’s your book coming?”
      I immediately feel guilty; it has languished in dust for six months or more.
    “I haven’t done much with it lately,” I tell him. A little white lie.
    “Why not?”
    “I just haven’t been able to focus on it,” I tell him. Truth, but still an excuse.
    “Oh.”
    I try diversion. “How’s your friend doing? The one who wrote that sci-fi and self-published it.” I enquire. “It was good, I hope he keeps writing.”
    “He’s got two books on the go, but says he’s not doing too much with either.”
    “Why not?”
    He hesitates. “He says he’s having trouble focusing.”
    I am quiet a few moments. Crap. He has already heard this line and knows it for what it is. He is my biggest supporter and I feel his disappointment in me.
    “I know,” I tell him. “I need to get it out and work on it.”
    “Yes, you do.”
    It strikes me suddenly. When did the shoe change to the other foot? When did I stop gently prodding him to keep going, to do right, and he took over that role?
    “I will, son,” I tell him. And I smiled. I meant it.