A Little While Longer

It's late, and he's out there in the living room still, sitting in the recliner under the bright white light. I walk out there to see why he's still up.

He's got his knees bent, an arm wrapped around his head, and he's holding a card of some sort to his forehead to shade his eyes from the brightness of the lamp only inches away.

When he was little, at a time like this I might find him rolling around on the rug in the middle of the room with his hind end in the air — a fool-proof indication that he was tired.

I sit down in the rocking chair across the room from him.

What're you doing? I ask.

He flips up the card without moving any part of his body, and he looks at me with those brown eyes. He mumbles something inaudible.

What?

Thinking about ..., and his voice trails into another mumble.

About what?

Oh... college and what I'm going to do and life.

It's late, that's true. And you can see the tiredness in his eyes. He should go to bed. Or then maybe he should just think those thoughts a little while longer.

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