He folded a paper crane for me every day we were apart. I came home to 47 cranes on my windowsill.
Forty seven paper cranes. One for each day she was gone. Lined up on the sill facing the door. Waiting.
She left for seven weeks.
Work trip. Overseas.
The apartment was quiet the way only absence makes it.
I sat at the kitchen table that first night.
Found a piece of paper.
Folded it.
I hadn't made a paper crane since grade school.
The first one was lopsided. One wing bigger than the other.
I set it on the windowsill.
Facing the door.
The next night I made another.
Better. Straighter.
Set it next to the first.
By day seven the sill had a small flock.
I used whatever paper I could find.
Receipts. Napkins. Pages from a notebook.
Each crane a different size.
Each one facing the door.
Like they were waiting for her too.
By day twenty the sill was half full.
I made a crane every night because doing something with my hands kept me from reaching for my phone to beg her to .