Never ready

"Waiting for something good takes forever, but bad happens (snap) that quick!" my dad always says. That's why, when my cell phone rang just now, I panicked.

I was in the kitchen, having just gotten into my sad excuse for pajamas, one hand retrieving a mug of hot chocolate from the microwave. No, not now! It'll take time to get dressed again; I'm not ready -- I'm not ready at all! Where's the stupid phone?

It was in the other room, and in the time it took for me to figure out its location, an eternity passed; civilizations built and collapsed; a lifetime before I could make my feet cross the house to answer.

Just before the last ring was through sounding, I answered with a feeble "hello."

"Cheereele, it is Josephine to tell you about your fadder," the nurse began. "Ders an area of skin near da anus opening which is a leedle sore ..."

Holyshit, at 10 p.m., she's telling me he has a bed sore. A bed sore! My heart was pounding so loud, I could barely make out anything else she said. It was the end of her shift, and Josephine is very fastidious, calling me just as requested, with any changes in my father's condition.

One of these times, it won't be a bed sore. One of these times very soon, I still won't be ready, and it'll happen anyway. He'll be gone, and I won't be dressed. It'll happen right in the middle of everything, of my life, and I won't be prepared. I won't be done being his daughter. I'll never be ready.