I'm leaving this voicemail even though your number's long disconnected.
I still keep your flashlight by the back door. The one you used to walk down to the dock to check on my boat.
Remember the school pickup line? You'd be there fifteen minutes early, engine idling, window rolled down, reading a paperback.
But I'm calling about that silence. The one that came after I said 'never mind'.
It was a Tuesday. I was twenty-two, back from a rough season. You asked how I was, and I started to tell you about the storm, about the line that nearly took my hand.
Then I stopped. 'Never mind,' I said. And you went quiet. Not angry quiet. Just quiet.
That silence sat between us for thirty years. I never picked it up.
Now I stand on the deck in the dark, your flashlight in my hand, and I wish I'd finished that sentence.
That's all. No need to call back.