Caller ID

      While on the phone with my grandmother a couple of summers ago, she shared with me an experience she had following the death of her husband, my grandfather.

      Following a series of strokes, my wonderful grandfather, the most loving and intelligent man I've ever known, lost his memories. As his health deteriorated, everything that was him became lost. In his final days, with hospice care in his home, my grandmother stood by, tending to his every need and feeling helpless while the man she had loved with all of her soul for over sixty years wasted away. When he died, though she was glad that his suffering was over, it tore her.

      For weeks, she wandered aimlessly around the house. The house that he had rebuilt completely year after year to become the one of their dreams. The garage, their garden, even the begonias along the hedge, all were built or chosen by the two of them. Every corner of the property was saturated with memories of him. She refused to leave, couldn't bear the thought of being away from any part of her husband that remained. There wasn't a funeral, his ashes were brought to the house. They had chosen years ago to be buried together. Once my grandmother passes on, then both of their remains will be placed in the same cemetery plot.

      My father and uncle stayed with her, fetching groceries, tending to the legal necessities following a death, and making sure that their mother didn't waste away from lack of eating. After a couple of months, my grandmother began talking a bit more and eventually, began leaving the house and running errands on her own. Time moved on and her sons had to leave, there were things they had to tend to in their lives and all of their allotted time off from their jobs had been used up.

      My granmother, having taken to sleeping downstairs during her husband's final days, couldn't bring herself to return to sleeping in their bed. She still can't. She rests in her recliner in the living room, which had been next to the sofa bed where he died. She'll drift off, letting the television noise fill the empty quiet of the house.

      One night, she was watching a PBS special when the caller ID flashed across the screen. My grandmother told me that the number on the screen was from my grandfather's cell phone. The one that was still in her purse under the counter in the kitchen. She stared at the screen, then at the house phone on the table next to her. The phone was dark and it wasn't ringing. Still, the ID on the screen stayed. My grandmother said that she wanted to pick up the phone, but was scared. After about a minute, the ID left the television screen and her show continued.

      My grandmother checked the phone logs on my grandfather's cell as well as the house. She contacted the company to see a list of incoming calls. Neither showed a record of a call from that number, nor any call at that time.

      To this day, my grandmother regrets not picking up the house phone. The questions of whether she imagined it or whether she missed the chance to speak to her husband one last time run through her mind every day.

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Thank you @Omra-sky for my sweet Squirrple Necklace separator!Main image by @brisbyFor the 5 Minute Freewrite Prompt - phone by @mariannewest.Thanks Marianne!

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