Eleven Dollars a Month

i still pay for her phone. eleven dollars a month, the cheapest line they'd let me keep on the family plan, and i tell the one person who knows it's because canceling is a hassle. it isn't a hassle. it takes four minutes. i've opened the page to do it maybe nine times.

the reason is the voicemail. if you call her number it still rings four times and then it's her — hi, you've reached, you know what to do — and that little laugh at the end because she could never get through one straight. i don't call a lot. i'm not at a window with a candle about it. but some nights, like tonight, i call from the kitchen with the lights off and listen to the whole thing and don't leave anything, because what would i say.

i've never told anyone the real fear, so here, 2am, to nobody. it's not that i'll forget her face — i've got a thousand pictures of her face. it's that eleven dollars a month is the only thing between me and forgetting the exact sound of her saying my name. and one of these months i'm going to forget to be afraid of that. and i'll just let it lapse.