There's a voicemail on my old work phone I haven't been able to delete. It's from Maggie, from two years ago, the night she left.
Her voice is calm, like she's reading a grocery list. She says the motel has a pool and the key card doesn't work right.
I was twenty, working the night shift at the phone company. She left because I was never there.
My younger cousin is staying with me now. She's eight and full of questions. We were playing cards and she noticed the deck is missing the two of hearts.
"Why don't you just delete it?" she asked, pointing at the voicemail symbol on the phone. I didn't have an answer.
I thought about explaining that some things you keep not because they're good, but because they're real.
She shrugged and said we could play Go Fish with forty-nine cards. That's what I love about kids.
Tonight, I'll save that voicemail again. Not because I'm stuck. But because I want to remember I loved someone enough to miss them.