A Visitor

Knock. Knock.

My kids didn’t even know who he was.

“He looked like the mailman,” JP said.

It was my uncle Johnny, I’d know his voice anywhere. I hadn’t heard it for far too long, yet here he was, in Memphis and on my front porch. There was a time when we talked every other day, at least. Movies, books, sports, jokes -we discussed everything. But then something happened, and it happened on my end of the phone line, on my end of the In-Box.

I’m not sure if I’ve become too busy or if I just think I’m too busy. At some point, though, excuses became easier than actually blocking out 15 minutes of my day to call and say hello, and that’s wrong.

If we can’t take time out of our days to get in touch with those we know and love, then why are we doing what we do? Why work six days a week if on that seventh you can’t take a few minutes to say hello and ask someone what they’ve been up to? There is no point.

My family scattered from Memphis years ago, but I’ve always managed to stay in touch, until this last year, and I have no explanation for that. But I can, and will, correct it.

The Quartet needs to get to know their extended passel of kin. They need to know when a stranger comes to the door, whether that stranger is family or foe.