shorthand

and the words don't come for her either. we have a silent telephone line that's 200 miles long and filled with the pains of being mother and daughter for over nineteen years, of being bored with each other, of not needing to be there for each other, of wondering if we'll even understand each other well enough when the time comes.

the silence grows uncomfortable. we're mother and daughter of nineteen years; there should be something to say. but the words don't come.

she ends the silence, but it's always the same words as the night before. work was good. it was a little slow today. I'm watching the news. they say a storm's coming tomorrow.

grow up, get a job, have a family, don't live your life, have nothing to say. grow old, have nothing to say, die with your silent daughter by your side, both of you unable to make the words come.

the phone line is silent. I am frustrated and angry, because she can't make the words come for me, and I can't make the words come for her either.