John and I begin to message back and forth quickly. We start talking a lot of small talk about what we like and things that we do. It isn’t forced and it is not all the time, some days we do not message at all, but there is consistency in our exchanges. I find myself beginning to look forward to them, however small that they are.
Then one day John mentions something about being at the beach and watching the sunrise. Something I used to do in another life when I was free to roam around and was not raising children. He offers to upload a picture of it to e-harmony so that I can see it, only e-harmony will not approve pictures for your account unless they are of you. In the end, he sends me his number and when I respond in a text message, he sends me a picture of the sunrise at the shore. It’s a beautiful sunrise and it’s framed nicely too, suggesting that beneath his machismo there is a creative streak and maybe even a little bit of an old soul in how he sees the world. This becomes my second favorite picture that he has sent me.
After that the texting between us seems to grow and I find myself sharing funny stories about my arch nemesis: David the Squirrel who is the obnoxiously fat squirrel that is always doing something that ends with me and the dogs chasing it around the yard with a broom. I sometimes wonder if David is the same squirrel or if I am calling five different squirrels David. John seems to appreciate my squirrel stories.
“Are you still talking to the guy from the internet,” my mother inquires.
“Yeah, we’ve been texting a lot more. I have been enjoying getting to know him” I say with a little too much excitement that is enough for my mom to pick up.
“Is it just texting, or have you guys actually spoken?”
“So far we have just been texting pretty consistently and talking about small things, nothing major yet.” I immediately want to change the subject. My mother has a way of being very critical of my feelings and of the men that I choose to date. She will find problems where there are none and thus, begin to cause problems where there are none. And this time, I am feeling very protective of John, the internet person who I really enjoy texting and looking forward to his little messages about his life and his days.
“Would you be as into this man as you are now even if he sounds like Donald Duck?”
I chuckle. “I really do not think he sounds like Donald Duck.”
“But…you don’t know that.”
My mother has now placed the Donald Duck brain worm inside of my head because what if he does sound like Donald Duck? I am already running through a plethora of scenarios inside of my head from him being some kind of weird child predator that wants to get close to me to hurt my kids to what if he is the love of my life to what if I get so wrapped up into him and then one day he looks at me and tells me that he is done because my kids are too much? The mental Olympics that I am putting myself through daily has become exhausting and then the idea of me going through all of this and he sounds like Donald Duck in the end? I think I would be devastated. Then the next side of my overthinking pops in and I begin to question myself as to why I would be devastated if an internet person who I have only been texting sounds like Donald Duck. And then I realize: because I like him.
In our texting exchanges of that week, we begin to discuss talking on the phone for the first time and I use it as an opportunity to make a couple jokes about what if I sounded like Daisy Duck? Would he still be interested in me? This transpires into an ongoing joke that I don’t think he ever fully understood. We plan on talking that night after I put the kids to sleep. I become eerily calm about the entire thing, and I begin to wonder what his voice really does sound like because my gut feeling is that he does not in fact have a Donald Duck voice.
A little after 8PM that night, I shoot John a text that the kids are asleep and that I was ready to talk when he was. Then, I nervously sit down in my recliner and wait either for him to respond or to call me. He shoots back a text about getting some privacy and that he would call me shortly. I exhale. It’s either Donald Duck or bust!
The quiet of my living room is broken up sometime later with the ringing of my phone. I sit staring at it for several moments before I answer it. I hold my breath and wait to hear his voice for the first time. I think I had even closed my eyes.
I do not remember how he started the conversation that night because we ultimately would become like two teenagers again, staying up for hours on the phone for weeks and being exhausted when our alarms would go off in the morning for work. I loved that innocent time of our relationship though where it was new and exciting, but also comforting.
What I do remember is how it felt to hear his voice for the first time. It was low and calming, strong and soft, but also reassuring. It was a mix of someone that I knew grew up in New Jersey and someone who has spent much of his life moving around the country, with hints and pieces of all the places that he has been. And the first time that I heard it, I was a puddle in my recliner trying to keep my own voice steady and not give a hint of the swarm of little butterflies that had suddenly found their way to my stomach.
We talked for hours that night, Violet had even woken up at one point during it and John had made a sweet comment about hearing her falling back to sleep in my lap. I have fleeting thoughts about maybe this does work out and he won’t be scared off by the idea of a widow with three small children.
Towards the end of our conversation, I even make the joke, “So, are you sure you want to keep talking to a widow with three small kids?”
He laughed. “Well, you being a widow is something that drew me to your profile and now that I know how old Logan is, I assume you were with Phil for a while?”
“Yes, we were married for almost six years and together for almost 10.”
“And he married you which means he could stand you.”
I laughed. “I guess that is a different perspective of marriage and widowhood.”
“It’s late and I am sure you would like to get Violet back to bed.”
“I would, but I have really enjoyed talking to you.”
“Me too, I am twitterpated. Goodnight, Daisy.”
I am thankful he can not see the goofy smile I am sure is plastered across my face. “Goodnight, Donald.”
I click off the call and the room is silent again. I remain sitting in my recliner with my daughter, enjoying the silence. It has somehow changed all together. The room feels different, like the heavy weight that had permeated the house lifted and a new and welcome change is coming through. I am still smiling like an idiot when I ever so gently go back upstairs with Violet and lay down.
I too am twitterpated.
Katherine Kuzma-Beck 
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