on today's 4:42, i tried to call my father to respond to his voicemail to let him know that i knew that mom knew that the two of us (dad and i) wouldn't be on the same train. who knows what was going on with his cell phone, because it rang and rang and didn't even offer the option of leaving a voicemail, so i called his office again and sat through the boring medical disclaimer and explanation of what he does (if this is an emergency, call...). while i listened to the message, however, i could feel my eyes well up. god knows i'll never forget the way my father's voice sounds, but there will come a point where i will no longer be able to hear that rush, that intake of breath between clauses and sentences that familiarity has caused me to ignore in daily conversation. it's the simplest sign of life, the exasperated breaths between frustrated sentences, the quiet sounds of inhalation and exhalation on the other end of the phone when two people have momentarily run out of things to say. but there's comfort in those noises, those reminders that yes, i'm still here, i'm still with you, you can hear me breathe, part of you is keeping me alive.
my greatest fear is being utterly alone — it plagued my sleepless nights during high school and the first half of this first year of college; i couldn't fathom what would become of me when the only people who loved me unconditionally would be gone. the thought of being permanently without my parents still frightens me, but less so, so that it's slightly bearable and hardly keeps me up at night anymore. still, i know a day will come when i will wake up and my heartbeat will be supported by my breathing alone, and i will be breathing alone, without a source of comfort, without someone whose slow breaths and quiet heartbeat will be there to reassure me i'm here, i'm here, i'm here. and i wonder how god could be so cruel.
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