Waiting for the Call

My mother died Saturday. It’s early Monday afternoon now, and I’m waiting for one of my younger brothers to call me with the funeral plans. I might go; I might not. My relationship with my mother was complicated -- that love/hate sort of thing. We moved around each other warily from the time I was fourteen, like competing predators at a watering hole on the African savannah, each tolerating the other through our mutual recognition of some ancient, nameless bond.
I might go; I might not, I’m waiting to hear.