Ben McKeown

“It sure isn’t the same not having you to cry with,” she said in a text message.

It was around 1:00 AM on a Wednesday night.  I was in Boone, North Carolina, she in Washington D.C.  I assumed she was lying on a bed in a hotel somewhere near the Capitol, but it was equally possible that she was at a bar with her father and sister, or perhaps standing outside a restaurant on a cold D.C. street.  My body tightened when I read it.  Suddenly, and with absolutely no forewarning, I felt a deep sense of sympathy, perhaps the way a mother feels when her daughter wakes her after a nightmare.  I wanted to be there for her now.

I wanted to hold her.  And wipe away her tears and reassure her like I know only I can.  I wanted to be there.  “I’m so sorry darling.  How can I help you?” I responded.

She was sad.  Nothing bad, she said.  Just sad.  I felt infinitely too far away.  I couldn’t help.

“Love you,” she said.
I responded.  “Love you too.  I miss you.”
“Miss you too.” she said.

I had nothing else.  If I were close, I would have put my hand on her arm and squeezed gently, perhaps stroked her forehead with the palm of my hand, just held her.

I wasn’t close.

——

I sent her a text an hour later.  “Asleep?”

She responded affirmatively by saying nothing.  I closed my eyes and hoped for her.