The Caller You Don't Recognize

I played it back three times.

Each time hoping the voice would be different.

That I'd misheard the hesitation

or the way I say "callback" like I'm asking permission.

The recording app shows the waveform—

small peaks and valleys, my words

translated to graph paper. Visual proof

that I was speaking. That something came out.

But the person on that recording

isn't me. Or she is me

but a version I don't recognize until

I hear her through the phone.

More careful. More tired.

The kind of tired that comes from

asking for things you already know

you shouldn't need.

The insurance company will call back.

Someone will hear that message and decide

whether I'm worth the callback or the transfer

or the hold music they'll put me on.

They'll judge the tone. The politeness.

The way I don't demand anything,

just ask if they could possibly,

if it wouldn't be too much trouble.

I don't sound like myself.

I sound like someone's mother.

Someone's secretary.

Someone who learned early

that taking up space requires

an apology first.

The waveform is still on my screen.

A small, humble pattern.

Not aggressive. Not loud.

Just there. Just asking.

Just me, but not.