Wednesday, April 13, 2016


I talk to my mom. A lot. She thinks not enough. I hit the guilt ball back with the fact that I speak to her far more than most people speak to their mothers.

She complains that I call when I'm on my way somewhere. I respond with she should be glad I call so often.

She says we don't talk for long enough. I say I'll call back later. She says I never remember. I try to but life often gets in the way.

That's been our phone volley for a long time.

Only now, it's not.

I see my mom's number pop up on my screen, hear the old phone ringtone that let's me know it's her, and my stomach clenches. Tears often well up. I'm scared something will be wrong because, for the past few months, something generally is. At this point, I've been conditioned for bad news. I steel myself to be supportive, understanding, positive, ready to drop everything to make phone calls, inform people, even fly down if and when necessary.

It's a completely different way of being.

This whole experience has changed me. Every time I talk to my mom I'm grateful she can talk to me. I call her when I'm sitting and can talk as long as she wants to. I'm happy to live the life of Seinfeld and have conversations about nothing.

These days, I'm never quite ready to say goodbye.

I would love to go back to the days when we're slightly annoyed at each other and disagree about how we should be in touch. Because that will mean the day to day drama we've been living through will be a thing of the past.

But for now,  I am grateful for every single time we talk.

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