Before my wedding, I called you. You were happy to hear my voice. Then I told you I was getting married. Because I was tired of being lonely. Because I found someone who loved me and sometimes made me feel the way I did when I was with you. You asked me if I was happy and, unwilling to lie, I told you I believed I could be.
You were quiet. Then you softly said, “My girl is getting married.” And I begged you for a reason to call it off and fly home to you. But you couldn’t give me one. You wouldn’t give me one. You wanted me to have a shot at a normal life, even if it meant losing me to someone else. So you wished me well instead.
I don’t remember if I told you then that I would always love you. That it would always be you in my life. But you must have known that. If not at that moment, then surely a few days later when I called you again. And every stolen moment on the phone after that, whispering to you in the small hours of the morning, waking up in the dead of the night just to hear your voice again and make sure you were still there—hear you promise you’d always be around.
Now I can’t call you anymore. No matter what the hour of day or night, there are no numbers I can punch on the tiny screen in my hand that will bring you back to me, bring back your voice telling me you’re still there. Now you are nowhere. And everywhere. So my fingers still dial the air, and I still wake up in the middle of the night asking you for a reason to come home.