My phone has rung a lot this weekend.
It's unusual in that way that causes me to try to interpret it as if it's part of a dream.
"And then the phone was ringing a lot... what does that mean?"
The reality of it resulted in a good talk with Laine last night while she cabbed home from
work at midnight... on a Saturday. Very often when I talk to Laine she's in motion.
On the train heading to her Midtown office or in a cab on her way home; walking along the streets of the Upper
West Side or on her treadmill. And of course there was that time on the swing. I find it fun because
I get to peak into the little incidents of her life that I wouldn't normally be privy to from this
distance. Like how she always wishes her taxi driver to "be safe" when she gets out
of the car.
My youngest nephew, Benjamin, left a voice mail yesterday to ask if we could
play Yahtzee the next time he came to DC to visit. The Georgetown Public Library called to tell me that
they were holding Erika Krouse's book for me until the 14th. And my landlord phoned for the second time
in a month to make sure that I wasn't missing.
And then there was the ultimate pleasure of a wake up call from Brandon, both of us groggily whispering
because our daytime voices seemed a little too undreamlike so early in the day. Stretching out the goodbye,
as always, to nearly double the length of the phone call itself.
And after that final click, so much quiet and lonely silence. Overwhelming silence that urges interpretation.
But instead I put Paul Westerberg in the CD player and sang along to him in the shower. Where I couldn't hear the phone.
Even if I wanted to.
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