I have a habit of saving voice mails. In fact, I have 22 saved on my phone right now. I don't save them because they contain some bit of information that I need to write down later, a date, a time, a place. No, I save voice mails because I fear the loss of a voice, the voice of my daddy, my mama, my Chip, of those I love most. So when my dad called me 3 years ago and told my machine "Iz just callin' to check on ma baby girl," I pressed 9 after hearing it to save it, and have to save it again every "21 days" as the automated voice tells me.
All of the voice mails end with an I love you, all of them preserve my family at their best...the ones where my mom is hurriedly telling me that grandmama is coming and we're meeting at 5:30, "so head this way as soon as you get off," don't get saved. The ones where Mary, my sister, tells me that she's been trying to get in touch with my brother and, as usual, can't get him to answer his phone, don't get saved. Coincidentally, I don't have any saved from Seth, he hardly ever calls, and never leaves a message. "I hate talkin' to a machine," he says.
You see, I've lost enough voices, my grandpa's "squeeeeeeze 'em to a pulp" as he broke a stack of saltines in his hand and dusted the crumbs into his soup as my eight-year-old giggle made him take up another stack to repeat the gesture. Or my grandma's "Em-ry," her voice rising in pitch on the second syllable as she called my grandfather, suds up to her elbows in the kitchen sink as I waited to wipe dry the oval faces of plates. Or my uncle's "I'm too young to be an uncle, so don't call me that." I hear the words, even the inflections, in my mind, pretend I can hear them bounce off my eardrums, but will never actually, physically, hear those voices again. So I save the others, the ones I still hear now, on my cell phone, hoping that one day, when those I love have ceased to talk, I'll still be able to hear their voice.
First of all, I love this idea, the way we find ways to preserve people, even pre-emptively. I have an irrational (considering the inevitable) fear of my father dying, and I’ve saved voicemails like this for similar reasons.
ReplyDeleteI think this could be a draft. If you decide to take it in that direction, some suggestions:
There are great moments that you could use a sort of funnel to get deeper with the narration, which might, in turn, open us up for reflection. In particular, my curiosity is piqued for the personal detail of Mary being unable to get in touch with the brother. Why is that? Why is that a usual circumstance? Is it because he detests machines? If so, why does he avoid technology? That detail in particular had me wondering, for two reasons: I want to know more about Seth and the speaker, and I think you could generate some interesting material on machines vs. no machines (if that makes sense). What are we like now, with technology? Why might we want to avoid it?