I call and say hello, but I don’t have much more than that. The mundane details of my life are the same today as they were yesterday, and the same as they’ll be tomorrow. I’ve run out of things to say, but I still attempt some sort of contact.
The minutiae is ever-present and never-changing, and simply saying hello doesn’t fill the silence. “Hello” is not enough to bridge the distance between us. It’s a smoke signal. It’s dust in the atmosphere that says nothing more than “I’m still here, and you’re still there.”
Neither one of us is satisfied to sit and listen to the other breathe. It’s not enough to sustain us, but it’s hope for something more. (Hope is dangerous sometimes.)
At times, it feels as if the newness has faded — saying “I love you” has lost it’s luster. It’s not new, nor are we, and I’m not sure that it’s enough. “I love you” feels repetitive. It sounds mechanical through the invisible lines that tether us together. It feels hollow even though it’s true.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I hang up and stare at the cellphone in my hand. I can’t help but think it would be far more satisfying to slam a receiver into its cradle.
I resist the urge to pitch the phone at the wall. I want to hear the plastic shatter. I want the release that comes with knowing something material has changed. In the absence of his flesh, I have nothing left to destroy but the medium of his voice. I want to, but I won’t.
The display light dims, and disappears, and I wonder if I’ll call again tomorrow.