The old number was going to expire
so I thought to save it. I
could not even recall the
last time I uttered those
digits but I remember
It belonged to a high
school freshman with an
overly enthusiastic voice
mail and some pop song about love
she’d never experienced
as her ringtone. Then, she
could text her friend
who stayed three blocks
away to see if one of
their siblings could take
them to the ice-skating rink
on Friday
she could put in saved
contacts of restaurants
and businesses she’d probably never call
but saved just in case
she could play back the
dozens of voicemails her
mother would leave—
phone shuffling around in a
pocket. The Dodge Durango turn signal flickering
and maybe if she listened
long enough. You know, really
listened,
I just keep getting stuck up on this dream I had. Mom is speaking to me, or trying to, and I am not close enough to hear her
I look in the mirror
my cheekbones rise like
crescent moons, just like hers
did And I am afraid to admit that
Maybe now, more than ever, is when
I would need her most. So, I save the old phone number
At least then I still have these voicemails.