in
each room.
sitting there, silent except
for telemarketers,
or an old client, a wrong
number.
the police wanting money.
land lines.
how long do you hold on
to them.
it was
how my mother would
call when it snowed
or rained hard
or she had a secret she could
no longer keep to herself.
my number was inscribed
on a laminated list
of names and numbers
thumbtacked
to her kitchen wall.
there was always red
sauce
dried on it, or cookie dough
where she
moved her finger down
the list making call
after call
until she found the right
son or daughter
who would visit.
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