A Fictional Rambling (of sorts):

It's stupid; I know.

I call the number, but I want it to go to voicemail. I don’t want anyone to answer. It’s not that I’m afraid of conversation—stupefied by awkward pauses. I’m no chickenshit who’d rather leave bad news on a machine than deal with actually telling someone. I just want to hear his voice. It’s one of the only things I... have left of him. I keep telling my stepmother not to answer, that if she sees my number on the caller ID to just let it ring. If I want to talk to her, I’ll call her cell.

It’s stupid; I know.

I even leave messages for him sometimes. “Dad?” I say. “Dad, it’s just me calling to check in. Hope you’re doing OK. Love you.” It’s like I can still talk to him. Like he’s encapsulated in this little box somewhere and all I have to do if I have something to say to him is call the number. It’s stupid; I know.

It’s like a prayer.