“I’m sitting here writing some birthday cards,” said Maga. “And it’s snowing and horrible outside.”
“Good thing you’re inside and warm!”
“Yes, I guess so. How’s your weather lately?”
“It was very cold today. Snowed yesterday.”
“Have you gotten any snow lately?”
“Yesterday.”
“I do not like the snow. Maybe it’s my age.”
“We’ve been lucky so far this year. Just a few little storms here and there.”
“Us too. It’s been enough, though not the great big heavy drifts and such. I do not like that. Oh, hey. Do you still do your Tuesday night thing with that crew?”
“No, unfortunately not.”
“Why not?”
I went into the finer, sadder details of why not, which I’ll refrain from repeating online since it’s not my news. Maga ingested the news, then asked if my boss had any kids, which had nothing to do with anything we were talking about…
“Nope, no children. Just dogs.”
“Some people would rather have a good pet, I guess.”
Not me, but I’ll refrain from repeating those details online as well.
Maga pushed me for more stories, more details, more excitement.
“I’m afraid I’m not very exciting right now. I’m living the just-bought-myself-a-new-furnace-financial-diet which is a lot of me sitting at home spinning the two pennies I have left.”
“Sometimes life is good. Sometimes life is boring.”
“I’m definitely in a boring slump right night. Maybe next week I’ll have something more interesting to say.”
“And maybe I will too,” Maga said.
An unofficial pact to live our lives here and now so that we’ll have oodles of tales for our Tuesday night phone calls.
Abigail Mumford 