Phone Calls, by Chris Agy, July 2002

So many calls,

my connection to son,

to daughter,

to mother and mother-in-law,

to sister.

To New York

and Minnesota.

Oregon

and Colorado

and Washington.

Sunday's blank slate

filled with spoken words,

vocal touches.

Companionship.

Living so far from family has always been difficult. The people you know best begin to be defined by remembrances rather than the present. Friends and their day-to-day connections usurp the positions reserved for mothers and fathers and siblings. Friends watch your children grow, graduate. Friends, armed and able, help you through the 45 radiation treatments. Friends knew about Ed before family, as I mistakenly thought waiting until an appropriate hour would make his death more palatable.

We aren't strangers, my family and I. We just live apart. For more than 30 years. Phone calls and at least a yearly visit, and more phone calls, keep us appraised of what is happening in everyone's life. But it takes discipline and effort to keep the communication open, to not read accusations or disappointment or disinterest into words with no gestures, no body language, no facial expression.

Ed's death caused an onslaught of realization that there are no guarantees about tomorrow. If you wanted to touch someone, you'd better do it today. The phone calls the first few months were often, so often, I'd spend hours on the phone each evening. Now, the number of calls and the amount of time on the phone has lessened, but our vocal expressions of caring and concern and connectedness continue.

Some calls leave me frantic, unable to appease, to soothe pain from a distance. My son, my daughter, my mother have needs that surmount my own. Missing their father, dealing with depression, broken relationships, lack of relationships, too much work, too little time, failures at school; it all seemed easier to listen to when Ed could share' in the discussion. I have been strong for Matt and Emily, not bringing them into my despair. A friend who watched me begin to bow under the weight of concern, advised me to let them know it was a difficult time, that I needed their help.

One Sunday evening, after a day of not very pretty feeling sorry for myself, I decided to share with Matthew. He called, started an emotional conversation about Ed and life and not being where he should at his age. I listened, he had friends arrive, and needed to get off the phone. As we said our good-byes, he asked, "Gosh, Mom, how are you doing?" It made me smile.

A trusted ally

when in battle against

ageless, faceless foes.

A cunning opponent

dishonoring a tenuous peace

with a frontal attack.

Connects with other warriors,
we commiserate,
strategize about tomorrow.

It turns traitorous.
Forcing me to witness

the anguish of the injured.

It enlists volunteers

to tend my wounds,

nurse me through the stillness.

Retreats, lying silent,

unresponsive, leaving me on the battlefield alone.

It beckons.

Welcomed and dreaded.

An invitation or a command.

I hesitate, “Hello."

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