I accidentally dialed my son’s number the other night.
All he heard amidst the noise of the baseball game he was attending was, “I’m sorry” which immediately put him in “oh no!” mode.
A couple words later and he understood that what I was sorry for was interrupting him, not another tragedy that required a heart-wrenching, life-changing long distance phone call.
But that’s how it is now.
The sheriff’s deputy came to my door and I had to make the awful phone calls.
But so many of Dominic’s friends first suspected something was wrong when they couldn’t reach him by phone on that Saturday after he left us.
I cannot abide the suspense of not being able to know for sure one of my precious family members is OK.
We carry our phones everywhere, silent to other calls when necessary but never to our “favorites” because we will not be unreachable.
If one of us calls another at an unexpected time, we begin with, “Nothing’s wrong!”
We have to or else hearts race, temples pound and it will be hours before we can come down from a state of heightened anxiety and near panic.
We touch base every morning and most evenings.
Like hands stretched out in the dark to comfort one another.
Just to be sure.