A Phone Call from Mother

My mother calls me every Sunday evening at seven. She lives in a small town far from the city, and I only see her twice a year. The calls are always the same, and I love them for that.

First she asks if I'm eating well. Then she asks about work. Then she tells me about the neighbours, the chickens and the weather. Last Sunday she talked for ten minutes about a new road near her house.

At the end she always says, "Don't work too hard," and I always say, "I won't." We both know it isn't true. After the call I usually feel a little sad and a little warm, both at the same time.