Knowing

"What shall I wear?" Mater, who was getting ready to go out, lamented into my ear. I could not see her congested wardrobe of clothes from where I sat on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, and I had no inkling of the possibilities.
I thought that a foolish answer would complement the question.
"Wear a pair of jeans," I remarked, knowing full well that my mother owned none and that she would rebuke my suggestion to the effect that I had never met her in jeans and never would.
A silence followed; it drew on for a degree longer than I considered necessary.
"A neighbour gave me some jeans yesterday," Mater said in a voice that wobbled. "I actually plan to wear them sometime. How did you know?"
It was Mater I called from the Emergency Room where last month Spouse lay prone on a gurney behind closed doors, attended to by medical staff.
It was Mater who picked up the telephone, who deciphered my strangled words of anguish and the bad news I delivered.
"I needed to hear your voice," I explained when I could.
Mater replied, "I needed to hear yours too. I've been crying for half an hour, and I didn't know why. I felt something bad had happened."
And there we were.