Telephone of the Wind
A voice, as a matter of fact, did answer her call.
Its whistles and whispers enunciated the unspoken and unthinkable language of her grandmother. It orchestrated a serenade of voices of past remorse and sang them into the etched marks of the telephone.
The voice was a paradisical, yet elusive melody of her grandmother’s fathomless regret and nostalgia and sorrow.
It continued humming a distant chorus of endearment and assertions of a grandmother’s ceaseless love.
However, the voice gradually subsided as the storm came to an end. It soon began to end its visiting hours to grieving ones.
The voice was a siren of a dead woman walking.
The voice was simply the song of the wind.
And the wind, as a matter of fact, did answer her call.