relative velocities
I found myself thinking about simpler times, when news good or bad traveled across the sea only as fast as the wind could bring it, crawling across the ocean accompanied by a hold full of spices or tobacco. The speed of grief had an upper limit in those days, borne by canvas sails and then by beast of burden, and a loved one might linger like Schrödinger’s Cat for weeks, either dead OR alive, either in sickness OR in health, superpositioned to be either when a clatter of hooves would announce the arrival of a wax-sealed message, waiting for the observer to read of their fate on ink-stained parchment.
I thought of this as I discreetly checked my phone underneath the conference room table for the tenth time in as many minutes, because in this modern age, I need to know now, I need to know what’s happening this very minute, and we’re done with the slideshow and why are people still talking? I focus my mind into diamond-tipped needles bearing the simple message STOP TALKING and launch one fusillade after another at the other attendees. They give way, finally, and I’m already pushing away from the table and walking out into the hall, gripping the devil’s own handheld device, this thing wrought of copper filament and crystal that has brought me only bleak news lately, first the cat and then my grandfather, and I must be some sort of glutton for punishment because there I am pressing the speed-dial button to see what it will whisper to me today.
Hello?
Mom? Talk to me. How’s my sister?
Oh, honey. I was just getting ready to send you a text message. She’s out of surgery and in the recovery room. She’s doing fine now.
I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, must have been holding for, what — hours? Days? Since the beginning of the previous week, at least, when my sister had called to tell me her checkup showed she hadn’t quite healed right, and they were going to have to take her in to operate.
No complications, then? She’s still going to go home today?
Yes. They’re going to get her some painkillers and keep her in the observation room for a little while longer, but then we’ll take her home.
Well, then. Well. (Relief, fortunately, also travels at near-lightspeed these days, although upon arrival it slows down considerably as it percolates through the knotted muscles of the receiver, each fiber whispering to its neighbors it’s okay now, did you hear? It’s going to be all right.)
She’s going to take it nice and easy today, so don’t you worry. How are you? Everything okay at work?
Yes. Everything’s fine here. Listen, just…tell her I called, please. Tell her I love her.
I will. You take care, honey.
I will, Mom. You too.
I click the phone shut. I stare at it for a moment before I put it in my pocket. I have a feeling it’s done with bringing me bad news for a time, these events receding now like this winter that has overstayed its welcome. I’m ready for the sun again.
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