Responsibility
Joseph investigated the mirror before him. Staring, willing the reflection to change.
His image blurred, tears that he no longer had control over ran freely. His age was showing. At seventy, middle aged by society’s standards, he looked good. His skin had a bounce and sheen to it. His five o’clock shadow, untended for nearly a week, was the beginning of a scratchy beard. His eyes “raisin brown” his daughter and first-born child, Linda, called them. “Because they have a little plum color in them, but the dark brown is winning the war in your eye, Father,” she’d said. She was busily tending to an equation before her, sweat at her brow with her effort, yet she made time to look up at him and smiled her sweet smile.