The Hours Between

She called about the gutter.

It's leaking again.

She can't reach it.

Her voice was small on the phone,

the way it gets when she's been trying

to handle something alone

for too long.

I pulled up Google Maps.

Three hours.

The route glowed on my screen,

red and blue lines

mapping the space between here and there,

between her alone with a ladder

and me three hours away,

doing nothing.

Six months since I visited.

The gutter was probably bad then too,

something she didn't mention,

something she just dealt with quietly,

the way she deals with everything.

Three hours isn't far.

I know people who drive that far

for brunch.

I know people who consider it

a reasonable distance

to drive for anything.

But I haven't done it.

The route is still there on my screen,

saved like a promise I'm not keeping,

like the hours have weight,

like they're a thing I can't afford,

like three hours is somehow

too much to give.

She'll call someone.

Someone local.

She'll pay them to fix it.

She'll be fine.

She's always fine.

But her voice on the phone

was not fine.

Her voice was small,

and three hours suddenly felt

like three hundred,

like the distance between

being a good daughter

and being one who stays away.