Papa’s last class ended today,
and college is over for the year, too.
We’re eating supper on the picnic table in the backyard
because the air is warm and soft
as the sky turns colors.
The quarter moon is a shell on the sunset’s shore.
Papa puts down his fork
and leans his elbows on the table.
I slap a mosquito on my arm
and wait for him to talk.
“We have a decision to make,” he says.
“I’ve been here for two semesters,
and you and Mama have been here almost six months.
If it’s not working out for you, we can leave.
Someone offered me another teaching position today, in Texas.”
“Does that mean we’ll have to move again?” I ask.
“Yes,” Papa says.
Mama stays quiet.
“Do we have to make up our minds now?”
“I’ll need to know by the end of July
at the latest,” Papa says. “And the question is:
Do we stay or do we go?”