The text message came while I was washing dishes.  Assuming it was sent by my mother who was looking for distraction from work, I continued with my chore until all the utensils were put away and my hands were dry.  My hands must have been a little wet still when I tried picking up my phone, because the thing slipped from my hands and clattered on the floor.  The battery went in one direction and the plastic shell in another.  By the time I got the battery back into the phone and the whole device turned on, I forgot that I had an unread message. 
     I sat down with my book and accepted the lazy afternoon that the clouds were tempting me with.  When my mom got home she asked if I'd gotten her text.  I slapped a hand to my forehead and opened my phone to read the message that I had missed.  The mysteries of technology are wide and deep; the unread text was not from my mother.  It was from Harvey.  He was in the States and would be home in a week. 
    I closed my phone.  I opened it again.  I reread the message.
    Back when I had no idea what day Harvey might reappear, if ever, his return had always seemed imminent.  Suddenly, his presence seemed like a lifetime away.  And I wasn't sure I could wait that long.