The hallway dark a faint old smell

The hallway dark, a faint, old smell,

where Auntie keeps what she won't sell.

Grandma's phone, black, heavy, grand,

a solid presence in my hand.

I lift the receiver, cool and deep,

the dust of decades it would keep.

No ringing dial tone, just a hum,

my own small number, I become

The child I wasn't, learning slow,

to poke each finger, watch it go.

The satisfying whirr and click,

a measured pause, a patient flick.

To dial myself, a phantom call,

to hear that past before it falls

away completely, out of reach.

Just plastic, memory, and speech

that never was, but could have been.

That slow, deliberate, spinning scene.