Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: connected


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My measure of heart.

It’s only been a couple of days since our microwave died. It also served as the clock in our kitchen. I can’t tell you how often I look at the empty hole for the measure of the day. From the table, the stove, coming in the back door, I look. I “eye roll” my own eyes — how accustomed they were to this time. 

So how could I not think of calling you? How could you not be my first thought when I finish a painting? When I start one for that matter. Wanting to send you my progress along the way. How does my brain not look for your email responding to the morning blog? My outfit. My hopes and dreams. My damaged pinky. Or bruised feelings. Because you were my measure of time. My measure of heart. And this I can’t forget. Won’t. Don’t want to. I suppose it’s only a change of direction. I can no longer look over, but I can look up, look up and know you are still there, Mom. Here. 

Tomorrow they will deliver the new microwave. It will take a minute, but my eyes will adjust to the new normal. It will shine in the corner of our kitchen, and I will think to call you.

Forever connected.
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Forever Connected.

I hate that someone else has her phone number now. Our phone number. The phone number I memorized since I was five. Carried with me. Still do. I hate that they won’t take the time to memorize it (nobody does anymore.) No, they’ll just plug it into their cell phone’s memory and forget about it. It won’t be held in their hearts and brains like a safety net. It will just be one click of a button. It won’t be dialed. Written on papers. Given to friends. Friends’ parents. It won’t be given the reverence so deserved. Our sacred phone number. My mom’s phone number.

763-5809. That number was the reason I dared to attempt my first sleep-over at Cindy Lanigan’s house. The same number that told my mom to come and pick me up the minute it got dark (outside and/or in my imagination.) These were the numbers that erased miles and distance. Allowed me to go to college. To get a job. To quit that job and begin a life. To become. These were the numbers that allowed me to fall in love. Move to another country, and still have my mother within reach.

They weren’t just numbers. And to think of someone just casually dialing them now. Or not bothering to dial at all…

These numbers were birthdays and holidays. Meetings and come find me! These numbers were “I need you,” and “I love you,” and “I’m right here.” I guess if you know this, you can use these numbers. And that will be OK, good even. Use them in the same respectful way. Know that there was love in that connecting line. Real love in every number.

If you are lucky enough to now travel in that line, please be open, be kind, be there. She would like that. That’s who she was. I guess I’d like that too. I’m dialing right now. Forever connected.

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