The room was often full of energy. All different types depending on the moment of the day. Grandma brought firm determination and the mental list of things to get done with a sharp edge of steer clear. Papa ambled and hummed. Sometimes wild uncles wandered through.
She would sit quietly in observance most of hours of the ticking clock. Largely ignored until needed. When it was her turn she alarmed the entire house, her ring being heard all the way to the stand alone garage out back. She sat against the wall between the kitchen and dining rooms.
You could settle on one side of the simple wooden table in the built in chair and during long conversations, chat into the receiver while she sat stately in her avocado green glory on the little raised wooden shelf of the other side. How many stories did she hold as secrets never spilled in her days? Her long coil strong, reliant but bendable, keeping your words safe while traveling many miles.
I wish I could have an honest conversation with her to ask what she heard, the mysteries my family kept locked away looking for an outlet now. The irony of her sole purpose being the one thing she can’t actually offer is laughable and maddening. She heard uncles schizophrenic break when it happened. Heard mama screaming in fear and helped bring the cops to the front door on more than one occasion when he chased us there.
She was simply a mass of atoms arranged to be a place to press your index finger and push until it the right number, then watch the clear plastic circle return to its place. An exercise in patience we have long since forgotten.
I have her number still right in the front of my mind and at times debate dialing it to see who might be on the other end now.
Forty years passed and I long to see her again. A melancholy ache in my chest for the memories of that home and the timber of Papa’s voice, knowing exactly where he was standing as he said I love you that last time, down the line.
I wonder… what inanimate object you wish you could speak to from your childhood?