Diane M. Laboda

Because

I can’t come to the phone right now because in a perfectly blue sky I just noticed a cloud go by in the shape of a swan. I’m waiting for the one that looks like Mickey Mouse.

I can’t come to the phone because there was a noise upstairs like something fell on the floor from a high shelf and I’m going to spend the next hour (maybe two) looking for it.

I can’t come to the phone because I can’t find what fell, but I started to clean out the closet piled with boxes and found the photos of our wedding, and my ukulele.

I can’t come to the phone because I’m looking for my music books and am fascinated by the chords I remember and the tunes that go through my head that I used to know the words to.

I can’t come to the phone because the picture of him makes me weepy. And I want to look at them all and cry myself into a long nap on the futon that never gets used except when company comes.

I can’t come to the phone because I now need a cup of coffee and a candy bar to make me right again, even though I will never be right again.

I can’t come to the phone because I’m out of coffee and candy bars. And people are dying in collapsed buildings in Syria and I need to pray for them. And I have to take a Zoom call from Helen who’s in South Africa (OMG).

So I can’t come to the phone because I’m in the middle of making turkey soup, Matt’s favorite. But, I have to use chicken broth, and I ran out of carrots, and the onions have all sprouted. Yet so many in Turkey have not eaten in weeks.

I can’t come to the phone because I just can’t move from this chair. My hip hurts. My head’s foggy. I can’t reach the phone. And life’s so unfair and cuddling with my dog makes me calmer.

I can’t come to the phone because it’s dark and the shadows have enveloped me. They know how to hold me gently and yet suck all the air out of me, but at least my house still stands, unshaken.

I can’t come to the phone right now because it’s night and I must sleep. Only in sleep do I feel safe and content that I’ve survived another day without him. I’m still relatively sane. And I think I might be happy tomorrow.