8.14.18

I ran up the stairs as if I was trying to beat curfew. (I never actually had one, but I can imagine.) I knew I was pushing the limits of our two hour time difference, but I had to get the call in.

“Maga, hi!” I tried to hide how breathless I was.

“Abby, dear. I was thinking about you earlier tonight and wondering if we would be able to connect.”

“I’m sorry it’s so late. My night ran long.”

Before we got too much further into our conversation, “There’s my pill lady,” Maga said. “I take a bunch of medicine at night, so I’m going to have to go eat my pills now. I’m sorry to cut this short.”

“It’s no problem. My evening ran a lot later than I intended it to, so it’s my fault for calling so late.”

“I love talking to you anytime.”

“And I to you.”

It was a short, sweet conversation that covered the oft-tread topics of the weather, my whereabouts, and her medications, but at 97, I’ll take whatever words she (and I) can spare before curfew hits.

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