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Sunday Calls From The Cell
When I first moved from Iowa to San Francisco, I’d call home at suppertime on Sundays.
“Mom. Hey!” I’d say. “What’s cooking?” Sometimes, wanting to sound all grown-up and happily living on my own, I’d have to rehearse those first few words.
“Pot roast and football,” she’d consistently reply. Could have been basketball or baseball. Always pot roast.
“I can smell it from here.”
“Are you settling in alright, Bella?”
“I am, yes. Just can’t wait for you and Dad to see the place. It’s colorful in an abstract way you’d like.”
The place was a 500 sq foot studio with a view overlooking a Trader Joe’s parking lot. The top-level had a jogging course. Cameras everywhere. And that neon colored wall visible from blocks away.
“We can’t wait to see it,” Mom would say. “We should come this winter. Take advantage of that great climate you have.”
“Let’s plan on it,” I said during one such call.
“Let’s,” Mom replied. “Here, sweetheart, talk to your dad.”