Tuesday Voicemail

I found the old voicemail on a Tuesday, your voice still living in a phone I almost traded in, saying my name the way you used to, like it was somewhere you wanted to stay.

I stood in the kitchen, dish towel over my shoulder, water still running, and felt the whole season of you move through me like weather that had finished with storming and settled into the particular grey of a sky that has already decided.

I didn’t press play again. I just watched the faucet fill a glass I wasn’t thirsty for.