Prize winning story by the Caribbean Regional Winner of the 2014 Commonwealth Short Story Prize My mother voice growing old over the telephone. First I thought was the line crackling, you know sometime reception ain good considering whether the voice have to travel under the sea or over the sky. Then there was also the business of her getting American. That one was a slow business. When pickney small is only so and so they does notice. Like how when Sunday come and we running up to Uncle Marcus house to hear the telephone and Granny complaining at me slow she say, slow, your Granny leg ain fass like yourn. And when we reach and the telephone ring bringg! bringg! Bringg bringg! and me one cyant control misself is climbing I climbing up high on Uncle Marcus kitchen stool. And when she sweet voice come tinkling down the wire like birdies singing or water down…
