Sevario's voice sounds far away. It is far away--even farther than it sounds.
"You aren't traveling today."
"You knew that. You called me here."
"You can still stop in Santiago on your way down."
He's right. I'll probably have to change planes there anyway. I haven't even thought about a ticket. Maybe we'll need to sell the house first. Money's the elephant in the room, the elephant that never forgets and never leaves.
I promise to look into flights, hedge around the fact that I'm not ready to go yet.
I don't know what's pinning me to this sky, these tide flats, my old room in my old house--it's a longing or a loss deeper than I want to name or even think about.
I promise again. I tell him I'll let him know by the end of the month.
Given how long mail takes to travel, that doesn't give me a lot of time.
I hang up the phone and see a letter from Henry on the table, a letter from last week. He says he'll come see me here.
But when? How long can I wait? And what am I waiting for?