My grandmother called me last month and talked for forty five minutes about almost nothing. Old stories i had heard before, observations about her neighbourhood, gentle complaints about her knees. I was half present for most of it, phone propped against my shoulder while doing something else with my hands.
I think about that call now more than i want to.
Because she is in her eighties and in decent health for her age but the arithmetic of that is something i do not let myself think about directly very often. And i know with the certainty that comes from having lost people before that one day there will not be a call. There will just be silence where the call used to be, and i will remember the forty five minutes i was half there and wish with everything i had that i had put the other thing down.
We are not very good at registering the value of ordinary presence while it is happening. The regular dinner. The phone call that covers nothing important. The afternoon with someone whose company you have had so consistently it has become part of the background of your life rather than something you actively appreciate.
Those things feel permanent until they are not. And they end without announcement. Without a final warning that this is the last one so you should pay attention this time.
I am not writing this to create anxiety about people you love. That is not useful either, spending time with people while being afraid of losing them is its own kind of not being present.
I am just saying look up sometimes. From the screen, from the thing you were doing, from the half presence that is easier to offer than the full kind. Look at who is in the room with you or on the other end of the call.
They will not always be there. You will not always be there. The ordinary time is the time.
Be in it.
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