I have not spoken to you in almost ten years. There are distances I cannot cross and places my voice cannot carry. Yet there we were, speaking on the telephone as though it was just yesterday. You started the conversation the way you always did;
"Tell me what's new and interesting."
I was standing outside, across the street from my house, gazing down at the river. Warm sunlight danced upon the water, caressed my face, whilst gentle breezes played with my hair. I told you about wild mushrooms and our community garden plot. Walkabouts and the hounds.
I didn't have to tell you I'd moved to the mountains; because apparently you already knew. Sabina, someone you never met and never will, was a familiar name in our conversation. The book I published and the fact my mother, your daughter, died nearly four years ago were all givens. We spoke of getting together for dinner and I was grateful you didn't ask me for my opinions about the politics of the day. I doubt you'd have wanted my company for dinner then.
"I think the dogs want to go out," Sabina's half-asleep voice was jarring in my ear.
It was all gone in a flash; your voice, the gentle sun upon the river, the breeze in my hair. I was fumbling through the dark of early morning to let out the hounds. Bittersweet melancholy swept through my thin frame as I opened the front door to a crisp autumn day. It'd been almost ten years since I heard your voice and it was just as crisp and clear as yesterday.
"I got to talk to my grandmother," I whispered into the empty air. There might have been a smile on my face. It might have been one of gratitude.