How would you respond to the complex sound of your own voice?
š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“
The rain hit the windows harder than usual that spring evening. Dinner plans with my better half were on the shelf, so I decided to take on a Marie Kondo challenge and declutter. Outside, the rain was insistent, as if it had something burning to say.
I began with a drawer–one I hadn’t touched in years. It creaked–not surprising since it hadn’t been opened since Clinton was president. Between the dog-eared notebooks and torn receipts was an ancient Nokia mobile phone, one that didn’t come with an internet feature.
But Marie Kondo hadn’t reminded me to put away its charger, tucked away in the corner of that same drawer. Not expecting the mobile relic to light up, I stuck it in. I swore that it should have been dead, but it blinked at me as if I owed it a living–or electricity. The screen flickered like an eye, opening after a long coma. And it spoke.
In a familiar voice. I froze. My voice was cracked by time–and regret. I should have laughed to hear myself–but I put the phone on the table. And listened.
š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“
With an obsession. Some messages sounded like confessions. Gentle nudges. Advice. Regret. Each memo was a breadcrumb in a dark mental recess–a reminder of who I used to be.
“You should have given your mom a chance–you’ve cast her aside like unwanted clothes.”
“Your brother has the right to make decisions about his own life. Why did you interfere?”
“You should have visited your grandmother. She cared for you when you were in the hospital.”
The voice cackled with Macbethian contempt each time it spoke, as if I was a wayward child.
š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“
The phone tolled without warning–my fingers wound tightly round it, not answering. There was no timestamp–just a cryptic missive.
“Release.”
The voice continued its speech, its tone ominous, yet comforting. The older me bore her soul.
“My mom never had anything nice to say–was never a supportive pillar. My brother’s heart was set on himself. And my grandmother? Well, she was forceful. Too forceful. Her way, or the by-way.Ā
“So I left all of them on the shelf. Went my own way.”
The phone paused for a while, then continued, without residual cackling.
“All I wanted was a healthier family dynamic. I only wanted to fix it. Make it right. Fair.”
š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“
The voice stopped. My fingers unclenched, slowly. I left it on the table, its screen still blinking. No longer accusing. But pleading.
The screen on my new phone blinked, wondering. An invitation.
“Gathering at Aunt Gen’s place next Sunday. Just to let you know.”
That night, my voice memos disappeared. I didn’t try to retrieve them.
The phone said what it needed to. I navigated to the family chat on Whatsapp, and paused.
š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“š²ššš āļøš³š“
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 