It’s Good to Hear Your Voice: A Year of Grief
I don’t dream of being with Kyle — in his presence. I dream of him calling me.
That was how we connected most — over the phone. In the 14 years we were friends, more often than not, we caught up over the phone. He seemed to always be traveling and working, and so was I. We only saw each other a handful of times in the last few years of his life, but we spoke on the phone once or twice a week, for an hour at least.
“Hey buddy!”
“Hey, where in the world are you?”
“I’m in Orlando, heading to Houston tomorrow, then Denver for like a week. What’s your view?”
“I’m on the 22nd floor of the shittiest fancy hotel in Dallas. It’s raining.”
I admit, sometimes I wouldn’t pick up the phone. I would see KYLE STEFANOWICZ pop up on the screen, hit the red button, and send him to voicemail. If I answered, it was going to be a long, tangential conversation at best.
A conversation full of his energy and his plans, all the goals he was going to achieve next. Followed quickly by me, my excuses, and my fears.
Sometimes you just can’t talk to a person who shows you exactly what’s wrong with you.
