At nine o'clock sharp, after I'd tucked my granddaughter in, I dialed my mother's number. She always answered on the second ring.
Her tomato pincushion sits on my dresser now, needles still stuck where she left them. I don't sew. I just keep it there.
The physical therapist gave me a squishy ball to squeeze. For my hands, she said. Bank tellers need their fingers nimble.
I do the exercises while I wait for the phone to ring at nine. But it doesn't. It hasn't in eleven months.
The first night she didn't answer, I dialed anyway. Her voice came on: 'Leave a message, sweet pea. I'll call you back.'
That recording is the only beginning I have left. I let it play until the beep, then I hang up without saying anything.
Sometimes I tell her about my granddaughter's spelling test or the arthritis in my thumb. The pincushion seems to listen.
That first call after she was gone taught me something. Beginnings don't have to keep going to be real. They just have to happen once.