The Voicemail

I listened to your voicemail again today and it killed me; not because of what you said but because of how I still remember how many sugars you take in your coffee and how you’d ball up your socks before throwing them into the hamper and how you’d flash me a cocky smile when you’d make it in. I remember how much smoke filled the apartment that time you didn’t put enough water in your Cup Noodles and I remember how hard I laughed because you were disappointed about not being able to eat it. I remember how you didn’t call our place a home until we had finished unpacking everything; down to the very last chipped mug you placed on the top shelf of the cupboard. They way you’d put on one sock then one shoe, then the other sock and the other shoe and how you’d sneak into the shower while I was washing my hair and would slide your fingers in between mine to help massage in my shampoo. I remembered it all. I could feel the memories. I could feel the heaviness of your hand on the small of my back like when you’d look over my shoulder onto what I was cooking for dinner. I could feel your big arms wrapped around my chest and waist tightly like they would when you’d embrace me after coming home from a long day at work. I could feel your lips pressed on my forehead and you holding back a smile like when you saw me crying the first time we watched Marley and Me and the second time and the third and I could feel the warmth of your chest on the side of my face like I would when you’d hold me close after on of my anxiety attacks. I could feel the bass of your voice vibrating in my chest like it did that night we got into our worst fight and I could feel your fingers gently slide across my skin like when we made love after not speaking for an hour afterwards. I felt it all. And I sat there, thinking about how I’ll never get to secretly switch your regular brew to decaf so you wouldn’t get diabetes when you would add your four sugars and a half to your coffee, again. I’ll never get topretend I hadn’t move the hamper over to the left because your shots were always a bit off, again. I’ll never get to make fun of you for that one time you didn’t put enough water in your Cup Noodles and I’ll never move a bit forward in the shower because I knew you'd be joining me, again. I’ll never actually feel your hands or your arms or lips or warmth or voice or fingers ever again and even though that last chipped mug is still on that top shelf of the cupboard, I’ll never actually feel like this place is a home again.