Infinite Ink

Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell

The key scraped in the lock and the door swung open. (She hastened ahead and opened the door. When he reached the door of the apartment, it was already open for him.)

He placed the milk and other groceries on the counter. He'd have to put them away later. (When his wife was there, the groceries arranged themselves into the cupboards and refrigerator automatically.)

Silent room. Four walls. Two gadgets. One wifi connection. He crash landed on the bed and allowed sleep to carry him away. (Conversation flowing, walls glowing, gadgets multiplying, but still one wifi connection. He took his place on the sofa as his daughter curled up next to him and his wife sat next to her, making a family sandwich.)

The Skype call tone jarred him from his sleep. He reached for his phone and swiped to unlock. ("Baba, you have a call," she said, knocking on the door.)

"Baba! Were you sleeping?" her voice sounded tinny on the Skype connection. ("Baba, wake up," her voice sounded clear in his ears.)

"How are you?" she said. "Living under your rule," he answered. "You and your dialogues," she said. ("I'm getting up," he said. "Wake up, sleepyface," she persisted. "Who will wake me when you're not here," he said.)

"I love you, Baaji," he said. ("I love you, Baba," she said.)

***

[Title by Emily Dickinson.]