Saturday Morning Phone Call

"Is this Jane?"

"Yes. I can't hear you. I'll call you back on the other phone."

"O.k."

Dial. Music through the phone on his end. The music is intelligible. But he's kind of unintelligible.

We talk. About lots of things, death being one of them.

There are a lot of things I could say but I try to change the subject. To music.

I tell him about 69 Love Songs. He already owns it.

He mentions David Byrne, Massive Attack, a few others. He has 300 CDs. His life's worth, he says.

"My crappy t.v., my CD collection, a few other things."

"I'll be pissed," I say. "I'll be pissed if 300 CDs show up at my door. And you're not with them."

What am I supposed to say to him? What is there really to say that hasn't already been said?"

I'm cynical about this now, years of trying to be a saviour and years of it not working. This is the best our relationship has been. And we both know it.

He keeps calling. He keeps living. Barely.

I've decided that it doesn't hurt to keep saying, "I love you." It can't hurt.

I'll say it as many times as I need to. I'll say it and mean it. I'll say it if he's here. And I'll say it if he's not.