I still know my mother’s phone number by heart. It’s been disconnected since 1983.
Tonight I’m in my childhood bedroom, back in the oil patch town I swore I’d never return to.
On the dresser: my old piggy bank, its rubber stopper missing since I was twelve.
This afternoon at the dry goods store, a new hire—maybe eighteen—botched a hem and started crying. Her hands shook. I wanted to tell her it gets easier.
Then I wanted to tell the girl who was me fifty-five years ago: don’t memorize that number so fiercely. The line will go dead. But the person who answered—she’s still here.
The piggy bank holds nothing but air. And that’s enough.