The red telephone hung on the wall and rarely rang. Only three people had the number: One never called, one was dying, and the last was my Aunt Sandra. When it rang that August morning, I stood and watched it. Ring. Ring. “Pick it up, Mommy,” my daughter said. Ring. I knew who was calling, what she was going to say. Perhaps if I did not pick up, it would not have happened. If Sandra could not reach me, the news would not be true. Ring. I reached for the receiver. One sentence told me all I needed to know.
Sara Staggs lives in Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in Change Seven Magazine, Tiny Seed Journal, and In Parentheses. Find Sara on Twitter @SaraStaggs.