Call Me When You Get There

Call me when you get there, she’d say. I’d roll my eyes and spout out my typical response assuring her that I knew how to drive safely, and “no news is good news”. I’ve always been a traveler, even as far back as those late teen years when I lived at my Granny’s house in the first year of college. She always wanted to hear that I’d made it somewhere safely, and I rarely ever actually called her upon arrival. Fast forward a few years to when I lived on the other side of the state, and eventually on the other side of the country, and her new line when I called to check in was, “I’ve been worried about you.” Again, the eye roll and assurances that there was absolutely no reason to worry. No matter what I did or what I said, Granny never stopped worrying, and she never stopped wanting to know I was ok. As I type this, sitting in the sand at a remote camp spot far from any signs or sounds of civilization, it occurs to me that not a single soul knows where I am. No one asked me to call when I got here or when I get home. My Granny passed away several years ago while fighting kidney failure in a lonely nursing home in south Georgia, and losing her has been the single greatest pain of my life. I miss her for many reasons, so much so that I’m often caught unawares by the longing I feel to be able to call her. To tell her that I’m home safely. To silently shake my head when she says she’s worried about me. To really deep down in my heart feel loved and cherished and missed by someone that is waiting by the phone for me to call. If you have that someone, be sure to let them know you got where you were going because one day you might be like me and only catch yourself as you instinctively reach for the phone and then realize she’s not there to answer.