Between Friends

I think about calling you and then don't. There's something about the distance in years and miles that is daunting. Something in the weight of expectation that colored the year when we lived in the same city and that has now faded, dashed by the things that happened when I wasn't looking.

The conversation would be awkward and stilted, anyway. Not really a conversation at all, just small things said to someone you haven't seen in a very long time. Your gentle voice and me hemming and hawing about What I Am Up To Now. Tongue tied around the words that I refuse to say, marble-mouthed with the answers to questions I won't share. Or, perhaps, a word here and there spoken in the language of reluctance that make no real sense at all.

We are Adults and we have Moved On. You've gotten married and had a baby. My mother died and then my grandparents, and an aunt and a not-yet-born baby cousin. I'm loathe to rain on your parade and remain lock-jawed and embarrassed, the weight of my disappointments an awkward silence between us.

Maybe I'll send you a card instead or books for the baby. Then you can be happy and, with my pride mostly in tact, I can be happy for you, too.

Love Is ...

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