Still holding her phone up, Mya stared at her mother. Her mother had such a pretty face. Everyone said so, but whenever it was just her and her mom, her mother delivered every set of thoughts with a long sigh, as if what she has just stated is a great burden. “Beverly’s birthday is tomorrow. I’ll need to send her a birthday card.” Long sigh.
“I have no energy. I’ll make a cup of coffee in a minute, after I do this puzzle.” Long sigh.
“What do we have in the freezer to have for dinner? I suppose I can take out some salmon.” Long sigh.
Listening, watching her mother, Mya wondered where the long sighs came from, and why she did it. Looking into her short tube of memories (she couldn’t help thinking like that, thank you, Uncle Pat), the eleven-year-old decided that she would not be like her mother, sighing as though burdened with everything that she does.
“We can have rice with it. Do we have rice? Let me go look.” Long sigh.
“I’ll look,” Mya said, jumping up. Then she caught herself sighing and wondered, was it already too late?