My hand trembled as I answered the call and pressed the phone to my ear while whispering, “Hello,” because I was afraid that speaking louder might shatter whatever impossible moment was unfolding.
There was a second of silence, and then a hoarse, familiar voice said, “Mom, please open the door, it is so cold out here,” and the sound cut through me like glass.
I had heard that voice ask for pancakes as a child, promise me he would drive safely as a teenager, and tell me not to worry as an adult, so I knew the rhythm of it better than any song.
“Logan, is that you,” I whispered, and my own voice sounded distant and strange.
The call ended abruptly without another word, and I remained sitting in the darkness with the phone pressed to my ear while a chill crept down my spine.
I stood and walked through the long hallway of my oversized house, which felt far too large for a widow and her memories, and I did not turn on the lights because I was afraid of what I might see or not see.
My name is Patricia Reynolds, I am sixty four years old, and after my husband passed away and my son was lost at sea, I believed the rest of my life would unfold quietly in the echo of what used to be.