Today is Monday. The calls do not come as before. Weeks elapse between them, and when I answer the phone there is no overlap of voices, only my mother's. She spends much of the conversation avoiding mention of the pink elephant trumpeting in the middle of the room. The pink elephant would be my defection to Georgia. When I telephoned with the news of my imminent relocation, my father asked, "Georgia as in the Republic of Georgia by the Black Sea, or Georgia as in the Peach State?" He hoped I meant the former.