Traffic starts moving.
At a very slow pace, but still.
At least it’s moving.
All three lanes of cars are huddled in bunches. Creeping forward. Stop and go. Stop and go. Stop and go. I’m at the point where I don’t even care. I’m finally getting somewhere and that’s all that matters.
My cell distracts me when it vibrates in my middle consul. My Mom.
Again.
Kudos to the woman for texting.
I silently ponder how long it took her to type out the message.
Then I laugh to myself.
Sadie! Text me back.
She gets two words from me.
Can’t driving.
A second later.
TEXT ME BACK!
Oh snap.
All caps.
She’s pissed.
Breaking free from the stop and go movement of clustered traffic, I press lightly on the gas pedal going fifty miles an hour, pick up the phone, and dial my mom’s number. She picks up on the first ring. “Damn it!” she hollers. “Why can’t you answer the phone or respond when I text you?”
I remain calm and reply, “Look Mom, I’m sorry. Traffic just started moving and I’m on my way home.” She’s frustrating and persistent a lot of times, but that’s only because she’s a great Mom and she worries about her children. She’s told me my whole life that you never stop being a parent no matter what age your kids are and I know that that is definitely a true statement.
She lets out a long, weary sigh. “Okay. Thank God. Text me when you get home. I don’t care what time it is, you hear me?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I mean it Sadie.”
Oh, I know she means it believe me. When I was growing up if I was late for curfew she wouldn’t sleep. She’d pace back and forth all night long until I arrived home safe and sound. I have since learned that that is a cruel thing to do to your parents. She’d only get huffy and angry because loves me and cares about me. When you’re a teen it seems like your parents are the devil because they want to monitor you. Want you to follow their rules. Their plans. When you become an adult all of that shifts. Your mindset shifts. I’d always say I’m never going to be like my mother, but as I’ve aged I’ve also discovered that I’m a lot more like her than I thought I would be and that’s not such a bad thing. “Will do, Mom,” I assure her. “Promise.”
I hang up the phone and go to set it down in the middle consul. It’s not until that moment that I notice a little piece of paper sticking up in the first cup holder. The number in black ink imbeds itself into my memory as well as the name written below it. Ray.
I smile to myself. A light bulb shines brightly bringing light into the darkened corners of my brain. So that’s what he meant when he said maybe we’d cross paths again someday. I’m not going to lie, when I watched him exit my car and walk back to his truck a deep plunging sadness stabbed at my core.
I didn’t want him to leave.
However…
Parting leads to sorrow.
But reunions are sweet, beautiful, and triumphant.
As I place the number back in the middle consul, I realize I have something to look forward to.