One day, she’ll call me from a street corner downtown. She’ll press her fingertips against that storefront glass and that white dress will reflect in her hazel eyes. And she’ll cry as she tells me because she, she is the kind of girl you love forever.
One day, he’ll call me feet red and raw, ballet shoes folded in his bag. He’ll wipe the beads of sweat sticking to his forehead as he tells me that finally, finally it’s his time to shine.
We’ll be sitting at the breakfast table on Christmas morning when she leans over, quietly whispering that she’s found a place to tuck herself in. That she’s already picked out paint chips for the wall colors and she’s having couches imported from North Carolina and “want to come see it? Want to come see it someday?” Yes, I’ll say yes.
He’ll be standing on the sidelines, suit freshly pressed, headset over his ears. He’ll send me a text message because that’s his way. He’ll tell me that he has tickets to next week’s game, tickets at Will Call, and he wants me to come. I’ll come.
I’ll sit in the stands while he beams up at us, beads in a row of necklace string crowds, all of us strangers together in this little ceremony of goodbye. We’ll whisk him off to college & hope people fall in love with his heart & his smile the way we do every time he pulls us close. We’ll pray he never forgets to end a call with “I love you.”
She’ll call from the back office, trays of food shattering across the wood paneled floor in the background. She’ll pause only a second before she turns back to me, focused, heart set on leaving. “Leaving,” she’ll say. “I’m finally leaving.” She’ll tell me about the phone call, the role, the way they dreamed of only her sliding across the set and slipping on this story for size. And I’ll wish her luck. I’ll wish her home sometimes, but mostly, I’ll wish her luck.