When traveling, sometimes it matters more who you are with than where you go. My long-distance relationship involved lots of travel between our two cities and other destinations. We both enjoyed being active and outdoors. It was an ongoing adventure. Until we realized we wanted different things from the relationship. The end was kind of a trainwreck. A year had passed without a word between us. Then I see his name on my phone as a recent call.
I had put my phone on silent mode during a yoga class and forgot to switch it back. I check, but there is no voicemail. Maybe it was a butt dial. I text him anyway: “Did you call me? Should I call you back?”
I hesitated about calling him back because our relationship is of a sensitive nature. The last time we talked, we argued. I hung up on him. He texted me immediately after the hang up. I deleted the text without reading it.
Days pass since his call. Still no word between us. My question lingers: “Should I call you back?” I decide against it. A thousand miles still separates us, though good memories seep in.
Soon after, my phone rings and his name appears. “Hell o” I say with a forced cheerfulness. He starts talking. I listen. “How have you been? Is it hot there?” And he says something else but I stop him. “Are you walking somewhere?” I ask with a bit of agitation in my voice. Am I not worthy of his full attention?
“Yes,” he says. “Along a path, up a hill.” The rhythmic crunching of his footsteps continues. My voice softens. His words mingle with a crackling wind. “You’re breaking up,” I say. “Oh, let me try this. Hold on. Is that better?”
“Yes.” I put the phone closer to my ear listening to his stride, his steady pace, with words and wind mixed in between. He tells me he wasn’t invited to his brother’s wedding. He is happy with the cast iron skillets I recommended he buy. He offers condolences when I tell him of a death in my family from alcoholism. His footsteps slow. “I’m sorry to hear. Are you okay?”
“Not yet, but I will get there,” I say. The crunching stops then picks up again. “It can happen to anyone, rich or poor, educated or not. I’m sorry,” he repeats. With so few words he relieves me of some guilt surrounding the death.
The wind goes mute and is replaced with chirping. “I can hear the crickets,” I say with a girlish laugh.
“There are swarms of them here, crossing the roads, hiding in trees.” In this moment I am walking beside him. We are friends, caring about each other, mending. The miles between us vanish.
Night falls outside my window. I’m remembering all the paths we walked together.
“Sweet dreams,” I say when his feet stop and I hear a door unlock.
“You, too.”
His name disappears on my phone.
The journey is always worth it. Sometimes you can feel closer to someone when they are a thousand miles away than when they are in the same room.
