When I talk with you on the phone, be it cold or hot, winter or summer, I invariably go outside. I don't think it occurred to me to wonder why I do this until just this evening as I stood in my t-shirt, jeans, and socks (the very thing I yell at the kids for doing) at the edge of my gravel drive looking up at the sky. It was one of those nights where the stars were stacked and scattered twenty deep and a million wide, the kind which clears the mind of any plaguing sense of superiority or other smallness. The air was chilly enough to make me wish my hoodie wasn't still in the shed in a storage container. But I still didn't bother to go back in the house. This is a hard-fast rule; our phone calls must take place outside.
We were talking about writing, books, your life, my husband and kids and our upcoming trip, when, on your end of the phone, I could hear dogs barking. Then I remembered where you almost always are when you call: walking your own dog through your darkened neighborhood.
So the mystery, such as it was, is solved. Despite the miles between us, I quite naturally go outside because that's where you are. That way I can keep you company on your walks and we are closer for the simple fact that there are fewer walls between us.
Just thought I'd share.