Voicemail

I let her phone ring out for the fourth time in the past hour, hearing the familiar automated voice of a woman letting me know that I was connecting to her voicemail. Just as her sing-song voice begins to twirl its way through the receiver, my room mate comes back and I hang up guiltily. He doesn't say anything. Why do you bother paying for her phone when she never bloody answers it? That's what my mum used to say. She probably still thinks that, too, but she won't voice it aloud anymore. But I don't care. I will always pay it for her. It's not a big deal. I take the phone into my bedroom and perch on the bed, dialling again. It goes through to voicemail and I tense up a little, as I do every time, just before the bittersweet melody of her voice invades my ears. It's been this way for eight months now. Most people would give up after eight months of unanswered calls. But truthfully, eight months ago she left. She didn't just leave me, but left us all. I've paid her phone bill ever since she passed away, just so I would always have her voicemail to listen to.