Work Text:
My physical therapist told me max 20 minutes standing
Which is still true
I’ve been sitting in line for a week
Its the line that can call anywhere anytime
As long as you can remember the phone number
And you only got one chance
you also needed to know how to work a phone booth
The phone booth is meant to say goodbye to those who didn’t make it
So many, billions, didn’t make it
Not everyone can live to the end of the earth
Remembering your phone number is the hardest part
Its been decades since I called it
My partner is sitting in line next to me
My mom isn’t worth the call
My siblings are behind and in front of me
But I used to call you daily
And there’s something aching in me knowing this is the last call
The line moves slowly
3 weeks later I get my chance at the phone booth
I’m grateful I timed my line entry time well
I feel bad for the kids who don’t know how to call
Because they are only in line to call their parents
Who never thought their kids needed to know how to work a phone booth
But I need to make my call too
I step into the booth and insert 7 quarters
I dial the familiar number
***-***-****
The phone rings for awhile
I’m anxiously chewing my lip like it’s my last meal
Maybe it will be
Fuck
The voicemail starts to run through
But I know the rules and I can’t leave one
I know you used to answer sometimes
When I was mid voicemail
But the call clicks at the end
And the guard motions for me to leave
I’m guessing you’re at the doctor
Or maybe church
Possibly having guests over
Or maybe just having a well deserved nap
Happy birthday anyway Grandma
I only wish you got to see the next one
And i wish I hadn’t brushed off my visit to Christmas time
Christmas mass is a hard funeral mass