letter to a friend over seas

i dreamt, this morning, that i called you on the phone. i think i called you. you might have called me. but it was definitely you. you didn't say much. [shocking, i know.] mostly uh-huh's and yeah's. but it was the affirmation in your voice. like an old pair of jeans. like your favorite cup of tea. like my bed of feather down and worn cotton sheets.
i don't know why it was you on the phone in the dream, but i was moved to tell you about it, so i am.
we moved bk's piano yesterday to make room for the spare bed downstairs, so bk has the option of not climbing them. i say we, but i mean my friends Ah and Bd moved it. Bk's husband, d, and i were up in the bed with bk, at her request, going over reasons for moving the piano, for not leaving bk alone in the house [or the room] anymore, for bk allowing others to take over her medication regimen.
there we were, d and i, who normally don't get along all that well, stuck like peanut butter and honey, doing everything in our power to help bk feel loved, cared for, empowered. we make a good team, d and i, taking care of bk.
the piano is an upright and was not on wheels. bd and ah are strong like bulls and simply slid the thing on rugs and towels out one room, through another and into the third, over two tall thresholds.
there was talk of those who are primary caretaker's of bk be responsible for the moving of the piano and the bed and other furniture that goes along with making that space and situation comfortable, but i assured bk's mom that we had enough on our hearts and shoulders and that there were others who wanted something to do. others who can't handle the diaper changing, the loss of orientation, witnessing the pain on bk's face when there is nothing to take it away. and so they came. my friends. to support me while i supported this family.
i'm a lucky girl, my friend.
i think that's what i called to tell you about in this dream. about what it was like to have them there and see what it was like for me first hand. and the difference the smallest gesture, touch, hand squeeze meant. and how much it meant to bk to have people there who were able to tell happy stories and alleviate our sorrow, even if only for a moment.
they left to go about their days and bk and i had a good afternoon. we sat on the front porch and watched it snow, observing the activity of the street normally unnoticed in our daily lives. we sang "these are the people in your neighborhood." she gave me a piano lesson over "mary had a little lamb." i managed not to cry. we sang a frightening rendition of the beatle's song "hey jude," revelling in the climbing cries of "better, better, better - oh!"
it was still a good day.
but it's late and my throat is soar from the cold i seem to have acquired. i've taken something to clear my head and am off to that safe haven of feather down and worn cotton to rest my head and my heart before tomorrow gets here, where a six month old boy awaits my arrival to sing him songs and make him lay on his tummy.
hope all is well and that someday you'll return the call. or maybe just the thought.

"Anyone can slay a dragon, he told me, but try waking up every morning and loving the world all over again. That's what takes a real hero." - Brian Andreas