THE SISTERS

They speak every Sunday night, 200 miles between them.

“Good week?”

“So-so.  You know.  You?”

“Not bad.  Jenny visited.”

“Nice.  And the grandchildren?”

“No.  All grown now.  Too busy.”

“Of course.  Understandable.  Like we were.”

“Yes.”

A pause, memories provoked, echoes of distant lives.

“Busy week ahead?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither.  Still …”

“We’re here.  For each other.”

“Of course.  A comfort.  Always.”

And it is, every week, the consoling tedium of their conversation.

Until.

No answer.

The phone rings across a cold kitchen.

Futilely, she goes on listening.

Knowing this to be the last call, the line snapped, broken.

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