The playback, empty of meaning, devoid of thought transmit the images of a long time gone, the facial hair, glasses, coffee breath and nicotine stained teeth. The photos logged into evidence serve to further cement those images.
She asks every day, since hearing the news, "has your dad called you back?"
Each time, the reply is no.
Mom speculates as to the reasons for the call, longingly lonely for his only daughter, regretting the choices of the past or dying. She questions why I’m not more curious, more insistent, more anxious, angry.
Despite the periods of cruelty, the missing hugs and endearments, the image of hope and expectations of reclamations crystalize anew with each passing day, each time the question is voiced.
"Has your dad called you back?" Again, the answer is no, again and again.
I’ve chosen to avoid thinking about why he called, more importantly, I’d rather not be reminded that he wasn’t calling back. The sounds of the silence have become soothing to the ear, a comfort to the mind. It’s the pungency of the images that threaten to decay the calm.
I must believe, accept that he won’t call back anytime soon.
"You don’t know, he might..." she continues to push for purity.
Mom please, stop.
The silence has become routine, golden.