You saved it. I know you did, because your thumb went right to it, the little arrow, no searching. Fourth one down in a list of names.
You pressed play and then you did a thing I don't understand. You closed your eyes. You held the phone flat against your ear like the old ones, the kind with the curly cord, even though you always tell me to hold it away so it doesn't hurt.
I hear the voice. I know the voice. It says something about calling back, something about milk or Tuesday, something so small it almost isn't anything.
Is that why you keep it? Because it isn't anything? Because it's the sound of a day when nothing was wrong yet?
You used to think grown-ups had it figured out. That being big meant you got to keep everyone. I really thought that. I planned on it.
The message ends. You start it again. You are learning it by heart the way I learned the whole back of the cereal box, every word, because I loved it and it was mine and I could.
Play it a hundred times. I would. I'd play it forever if it kept the voice from getting quiet.
But when you're done today, will you say it out loud, the thing you wanted to say back? Even to the empty room? I still believe someone hears you. I never stopped believing that part.
I hope you didn't either.