It wasn’t much, but it happens so rarely that it left an imprint.
I don’t talk to my family, anymore. I’m the black sheep. The disowned. The ostracized and forgotten. I don’t know why. I have two parents, four sisters, and a handful of aunts, uncles, and cousins. The only one that still claims me as one of their own is my father. I have an aunt and a few cousins who are friends with me on Facebook, but we never talk.
Dad and I keep in touch with random text messages. We text at least once a month, sometimes a little more often. Tonight, I decided to call him and fill him in on all the news that has happened since we texted last month.
We spent 45 minutes on the phone. We chatted about life. We shared our boring. We shared our exciting. We talked. It felt really good. It’s hard this time of year. It’s lonely to prepare for Christmas without my huge family in the plans.
I only expected to talk for a moment. He hardly ever answers his phone. When he does, he seems to always be in a rush. I sped through my news. He filled me in on his news. Then, we talked. We strolled down memory lane, talking about my grandparents. We discussed his health and his preparations as he approaches retirement. We talked about life.
It was really great. It was unexpected. It wasn’t much, but it was just what I needed.