Saved Message

The phone said storage was running low.

I went through saved messages. And there—

his voice, four years back. I know

the call: just checking in, the air

where he was might bring rain on Saturday,

call when you get a chance. I stood

in the hallway, coat still on. The display

said forty-three seconds. I should

have kept going. I played it

through. His voice for nothing—

the unhurried kind. He'd made it

sound like any afternoon. The breathing

before "anyway." I know that pause.

Forty years I've known it.

It was in there. The small because

of an ordinary call. I own it

now in a way I didn't then.

I stood until it ended.

Stood past the end. And then

the hallway. The dark. Offended

by nothing. Just his voice still

in it. I pressed save.

Went through the rest. The still

of the hallway after. I gave

the rest away.

His voice, I kept.