Calling Home

“Hello, mother, it’s me.”
“Hello, how are you?”
“Well.  You?”
“Good.”
Then it begins.
The recitation of mundane minutia about meals with people
whose faces I imagine as still in late middle age
where I am now.
Family friends who I hope are still mobile and present.
“What?”
She asks. I start on my abbreviated list about her grandchildren’s comings, goings, and comings again.
“And you?  You don’t sound stuffy, that’s good.”
I hit the mute button, clear my throat and tell her I’m writing.
She never asks ‘what’ again.
And then we end
where we began,
just before goodbye.