I left home when I was seventeen. I call home almost every Sunday night, no matter where in the world I was. If my dad answered, I’d ask him how he was and he’d tell me about the weather and then say, “Anyway, I think your mother would like to talk to you.” Once my mum was on the phone I’d mostly listen while she caught me up on what everyone else had been up to.
2052 weeks passed between my first call from Kingston and the first weekend in January, when Mum had her stroke. Even if I only called eight weeks out of ten, that’s still sixteen hundred conversations, and I’m finding it a hard habit to break. No matter what else I’m doing or what else I’ve done, I get a little restless as the weekend draws to a close. As silly as it is, part of me hopes that I’ll never get used to not being able to call home on Sunday night.