Skyped with the grandsons, talked with our kids, chatted with our dads, made angel food cake and mixed fresh berries and mango salad and all kinds of good things–
–and somehow, this evening, the account on Richard’s phone burped up old voicemail messages onto his suddenly-insistent cell. Years-old messages, very much to his surprise. How on earth did these show up?
I heard the raspy-to-me electronic voices and came in the room and asked who he was talking to, and he explained.
And among those very old messages were two from his mom.
Today was the first Father’s Day with her gone. He was sitting there listening to her voice.
Those two messages are staying.