It's Christmas day, but you're not answering your phone. Sending me to voicemail must be your passive punishment for my sins.
"I just wanted to call and say merry Christmas."
Hoping you would answer to say the same was obviously futile.
"I wish I was there with you guys. Give Eve and Caddie kisses for me."
Maybe if we talked more like the close sisters I wish we were, you'd know not being around to be a real aunt to them is hard for me. I want a relationship with them beyond Thanksgivings and photographs.
"I know I need to call more often..."
But somehow, I always get your voicemail. You hardly return them, and when you do, the conversation fizzles out after ten minutes when you have something more pressing to do.
"I love you."
I love you, but I don't know you at all. All I have are shared memories of melted plastic coffee pots, pink Barbie bikes, and shared weekends at Dad's with Sweet Valley High and board games.
I hate saying goodbye. Sunday evening was always my least favorite time of the week. It meant I'd leave, and we went back to our separate lives, six years, forty minutes, and a million miles apart. But neither of us ever said how it hurt, and maybe it's too late now, the damage done and irreversible. I know I built up walls. and I think you did too. I used distance, you used a husband and family. Either way, maybe we've blamed each other for things we couldn't control. Maybe... maybe...
"Call me soon, ok?"