If I cross off all the days on the calendar that you weren’t here, whole months would be cast adrift into oceans of black ink. Disconnected, broken apart from the other months, only reachable by telephone.
Hello? When will I see you again? My island is too far from shore to remember what you look like.
The connection is bad, I cannot hear you. You’re breaking up, you’re breaking up. Are we breaking up? There you are. We are not broken.
Absence reveals what is left behind. The island is good, good enough for rebuilding when our islands touch again.
Gwen Higgins 