I
left home eager for
the
taste of new skies.
My mother waved me off
with
a kite
and
a calling card
and
a reminder to call on Monday.
I have called my mother
most every Monday night
for many years.
Long
black wires stretch
umbilically
across the land,
calling
her voice
to
me.
Some
days I wake, eager to place
handset
to ear
to
hear the familiar pattern
of
her words.
I
have used the calling card so many times
my
fingers dial it without thought.
Sometimes,
when I try to remember the sequence
I
have to hang up – I'm lost
but
when I am desperate,
panicky for reassurance
my
hand flies
and
it rings
and
I shudder into the line
shivering
thousands of miles
soaring
into the night sky
plunging
under the snow drifts,
my
fears turned copper and steel
until
she resurrects me
with
a simple hello.
There
have been days
when
I have left notes for myself
reminding
“call
mom”
“don't
forget”
“you
know she worries”
but
still time slides by
When I do call she is regretful
for
the week we have lost.
There
are days when I can't wait
I
must share
my
newest crush
or
devastation.
and
I pour myself
into
the cradle
mouthpiece
to earpiece.
Some Mondays
our
conversation is empty
with
weather and work.
She
writes lists of things
I
must know
and
I stack reminders
by
the phone.
Some
weeks the pile is higher when I hang up.
Our
good-byes are long with miles
of
regret
and
last minute memories
of
things we need to share
Every
Monday
for
twenty years
plus
some.
how
many days in between
have I lost?
