FamilyIreLion

17 Sept 2 min read

I Still Call My Parents' Number, Hoping They'll Answer

My parents have been gone for many years now, but there are days when the grief feels as fresh as the morning we buried them. People often say time heals everything. Maybe it softens the pain, but some losses simply learn how to live quietly inside you. A few months ago, my wife and I bought an old rotary telephone from a secondhand market. We didn't buy it because it worked. We bought it because it looked beautiful and vintage. It now sits on a small table in our dining room as decoration, and most visitors admire it whenever they come around. What nobody knows is that the phone means much more to me than a piece of decoration. It reminds me of the black landline telephone my parents had when I was growing up. Back then, that phone was our connection to the outside world. Family members called through it. Neighbors sometimes came to our house just to receive important calls. Whenever my wife travels for work or visits her family, I find myself sitting alone in the dining room at night. The house becomes unusually quiet. No television. No conversations. Just silence and memories. On some of those nights, I pick up the rotary phone and slowly dial the number of my childhood home from memory. The number has probably belonged to someone else for years, or maybe it doesn't even exist anymore. Yet my fingers still remember every digit. As the imaginary ringing echoes in my mind, I catch myself hoping for something impossible. A part of me still wishes my mother would answer first with her familiar voice. Then my father would take the phone and ask if work was going well and whether I was taking care of my family. Sometimes I even talk as if they are truly on the other end. I tell them about my wife. I tell them about the challenges of adulthood. I tell them about the dreams I have achieved and the ones I am still chasing. I tell them how much I miss them. The strange thing is that those conversations bring me comfort. For a few minutes, I am no longer a grown man carrying responsibilities. I am simply their son again, sharing stories after a long day and hearing their encouragement in my heart. I have never told anyone about this habit, not even my wife. I know some people would think it is odd. Others might say I should have moved on by now. But grief doesn't follow a timetable, and love doesn't disappear just because someone is no longer here. So whenever life becomes overwhelming, I sometimes sit beside that old phone and dial a number from a world that no longer exists. I know nobody will answer. Yet somehow, when I hang up, I feel a little less alone.