I’ve heard it all. Calls to 9-1-1 and relatives. Chats that went for hours around whether coffee is better than tea, chocolate than blancmange. I used to be so proud. I relayed reservations for rental kilts and appointments for the delivery of a sofa and a bed. I thought that it would never end, that I’d never go the way of the rotary phone I replaced. I rang and rang, loud and strong, even when my people were not around, but the calls became fewer, and then I caught them talking on smaller phones that could go anywhere. I wanted to tell them how betrayed I felt, but I have never had my own voice.
And it wasn’t many days after that I found myself in a box, and then on a thrift store shelf beside a whole fleet of Mason jars. Some of them sold. I did not. A month passed, and I was removed to the dumpster. Now, I’m only waiting to be crushed. I’ll never hear—or speak for those I hear again. I wish I could order a pizza or homestyle bean curd, or even just tell someone they have the wrong number, but that’s all over now, as all things must one day be.
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