Distance

I found my first white hair the other day. White, not gray because “blondes seem to get white hairs and not gray ones.” I remember telling you that once. I immediately thought of you when I found it and I wanted to tell you so badly. But we can’t talk right now. Ironically I found the hair while I was sitting in the salon parking lot before I got it dyed. I was crashing out from the healing our distance is making me face, and I needed change. I needed to feel in control of one thing when everything else was spiraling out of my control. Another thing I wanted to tell you.

But I can’t. You’ve always made me think. You activated parts of my brain that I can’t shut off now so that white hair spiraled into wanting to tell you because I wanted to jokingly blame it on you and then tell you that I think I’m lucky to witness enough life to go white or gray. Especially when I didn’t think I’d make it past twenty-three. And how lucky I am that you were part of it. Our conversation would linger there for a moment and then progress as it does to any and everything. We’d dissect a topic as well as our thoughts on the topic and just enjoy the conversation that we can’t find elsewhere. But we can’t.

We may not be talking, but I still speak to you.