I stepped out of the house for just a few minutes, my phone plugged in to charge. I missed your call.
“Hey.” You say, through the speaker held up to my ear. One syllable, vowel sound drawn out just a touch. The familiar, quiet lilt in tone. The rich slowness of your vocal chords. A pause. I know a half-grin is lifting the corners of your lips. I hear you. I hear this message. It’s just for me.
I hear: Hey. Just calling to connect with you. Hey.
You’ll be home from work in a half hour. We’ll be shuffling kids into shoes and cars. Buckling them in. Getting places on time. We won’t look each other in the eye. Our eyes too readily fixed on keys and snacks and the clock and the kids’ jackets–just in case, even on this unseasonably warm November day.
Our lives are busy. Our brains are full.
Our hearts are left till last. Always connected. Sometimes in receipt of an extra, gentle tug. A pause. A rapid beating. A quiet, complete, thrumming understanding.
Hey. I listen. I hear. I strain for more.Jen Writes