My voice is small on the phone this week, scrunching into a hiding place of uncertainty and wonder, feeling the weight of the words and the questions and the aches, the aches of the hard things. And I can hear her all the way from 21 St, NW, all the way from the beloved place we both know to be home, in our hearts and in our dusty shoes, as she leans towards me across cell phone towers and long pauses. "I'm sorry, love," she says, and I lean closer, my feet tucked up under me and I remember how we learned to write Rilke to each other in the miles between Massachusetts and Uganda.
I remember how she would let me sit with thoughts too fragile to speak, holding my mug of chai as the days grew grey and cold last winter.
I remember how we laughed until we cried in my room when I came home and how we walked through Davis Square with cupcakes and thrift stores and Sunshine Lucy's furniture and dreams of life built together in the midst of all that is beautiful about becoming.
I remember in the smallness this week how she listens and loves and how she lets me lean, and how she opens her arms wide and from a thousand miles brings me right back into the home of her heart.