The Sunday Phone Call

The call itself is rarely interesting. The weather there, the weather here. What the doctor said. What the neighbor did. Whether the tomatoes came in. Anyone eavesdropping would hear two people exchanging almost no information — and completely missing what is being exchanged.

The Sunday call is not a conversation. It is a pulse. Its content matters far less than its rhythm: same day, same rough hour, week after week, for years. What the rhythm says cannot quite be said out loud without embarrassment — you are still my person; I am still yours; nothing has changed that. So families found a way to say it in the code of tomatoes and weather.

Miss a week and notice what happens. Nothing, officially. But the next call begins with a small settling, like a heartbeat catching up. Miss two, and someone will "just be checking in" on a Wednesday, casual as anything, not casual at all.

Grown children sometimes complain about the obligation, and then, at some point, the calls end the way such calls eventually do — and every one of them says the same thing: I would give anything for one more boring Sunday. The weather there. The weather here. What the doctor said.

The call is not the least you can do. It is, week over week and year over year, one of the most. Same time next Sunday.