There’s something about the way she says my name. “Bri-annnnn,” and the “n” trails off into infinity like a chain saw, or a motorcycle racing into the distance. It was my mother, of course. It was time for her to make her 13 phone calls to me in the span of 11 minutes. There must be equipment at the phone company that burns out on a regular basis because of her quick-on-the-button redials. I’m also sure there is a man whose sole job is to figure out why it’s happening. “We’ve tracked it to a short woman in Tampa who always remembers something she forgot to ask her sons, and calls back 1,500 times. We also suspect she caused a blackout in China.” I was waiting for the calls, expecting the calls like you expect high tide or bills. I knew they were coming because I knew she was coming. Up to visit for the weekend, the weekend between my brother’s and my birthday. (I’ll be 32 by the time you read this.) As we get closer to one of her voyages, it begins with messages at home, a fleet of them, and then calls to work. The closer we get, the more frantic. The more pressing. The more critical to the fate of the universe. So the phone rang one night. “Bri-annnnn,” she said. “Your brother won’t speak to me anymore so I’m calling you. He’s threatening to change his number and not list it.” No “hello.” No “how … Continue reading Mother and her bridges