Worthy Witness

I saw you the other day, or at least I think it was you.  “How would a mother not know her own son?” I thought.  I saw you from the side, and it looked like your profile.  There was a long line of kids separating us, kids waiting to dip their candles into wax again; round and round they went to the station with the melting wax.  Was that my granddaughter with you?  I saw a little blonde girl with a heavy-set woman.  She was standing next to you.  Was that her aunt, your wife’s sister?  I haven’t seen you for six years even though we live in the same town, and don’t know if you would know me.  Have you seen me?

I can remember the day exactly when you stopped talking to me.  You had called to share the news of the pregnancy.  I wasn’t home, and for four days, I called the wrong number, one digit off, and told a machine how happy I was.  I said, “Let’s celebrate with dinner.”  Each day, I called, a little more urgent.  “Hi, why haven’t you returned the call?”  and “Hey, what’s up?  Pop and I want to take you to dinner.”  On the third day, I just said, “I hate this machine, if you’re there, please pick up.”  Waiting a moment, I hung up.  On the fourth day, there was a strange voice on the other end; no machine that sounded just like yours.  The voice said, “I’m sorry but you have been calling a wrong number.  I have your messages, but didn’t have a return number to let you know.”  My heart fell to the pit of my stomach.  I was four days too late to celebrate with you; to rejoice that finally there would be a baby.  I called the right number:  too late, you didn’t answer.  You didn’t return the call even though I apologized.  I called and called, and finally even went to your house, but you weren’t home.  I left a note, but it was too late.  You knew I was sorry, but you didn’t care.

I had been sick that day I didn’t know if it was you.  It was the first time in six years that I thought it was you.  Perhaps you didn’t know me, and that’s why you walked away when I waved across the line of kids waiting to dip their candles.  Or perhaps it was just too late.

Inspired by Susan Gibb “Eye Contact.”