voicemail, 0:41

i have a voicemail from my grandmother
i've been saving for a day i'm strong enough.
forty-one seconds. the first six are the phone being found.
i know the rest. i have it by heart
the way you know a stair in the dark:
beta, did you eat. the neighbour's cow had twins.
call when you can. no hurry.
i keep my storage full on purpose
so the phone has no room to delete anything.
it begs me every month. i buy a bigger plan.
my mother says grief is a bill that comes in installments.
my friends say delete the junk, you'll feel lighter.
nobody says what to do with a voice
that still believes you'll call back.
the neighbour's cow is dead now, i think.
the twins would be grown, anonymous, chewing in a field.
somewhere in forty-one seconds,
no one has told them anything.
i won't play it today.
it will wait. it's the only thing i own
that was never in a hurry.