I was expecting a phone call. You know, one of those phone calls, wink wink nudge nudge.
The phone trilled. Caller ID? Hm, unfamiliar cell number, all good.
"Hello?" I said, trying to sound calm, refined, and whatever.
"Hello, Lea." The Voice was so, so manly, a rich baritone. The Voice of a confident adult, a date who would have the evening planned. My, how promising.
"Is Zeidy there?" the Voice rumbled.
I was frozen for a moment. Zeidy? Did my date call the wrong number? Then—
"Levi?"
"Yeah."
Flabbergasted, I mutely handed the phone to my father, my face purple with embarrassment. Then I laughed.
My little yingelah. A tinny refrain of "Sunrise, Sunset" began to warble in the background.
He's going to be sixteen soon, and he was calling for the source of "chayecha kodmim."
Sentimentally, I remembered that time when he was three and stayed overnight, and fell out of bed at 2 a.m. I dragged myself reluctantly from my cocoon, knowing his terror, scooping him up. He, always leery of looking less than macho, cuddled against me. I was as old then as he is now.
Oh, stop sniffling, you sap.
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