simple little things

Tonight, one of my good friends asked his wife, (also my good friend,) how many saved voicemails she had in her cell phone.  Apparently, he has only 4 or 5.  At any given moment, I have between 11 and 19.  Right now, I have fifteen.  Each time my Dad, or my husband, or a close friend leaves a voicemail, I save it.  I’ll continue to re-save it until that person leaves another voicemail.  I need to know I have at least one message saved from each person I love. 

After my Mom died last year, it took me a while to recognize all of the things that I lost when I lost her.  There are the obvious things, like not having someone to send a card to on Mother’s Day.  There were the less obvious things, like no longer having someone who would always understand and empathize with the fact that it wasn’t fair that I could still get pimples when I was starting to get wrinkles around my eyes.  And then there’s the things no one can possibly tell you.  Like the fact that no one will ever care as much as she would have how pretty my hair looked on my wedding day.  And the fact that no matter how many photos I had (a lot) or how many pieces of her clothing I wore to work each week (more than reasonable) there were things that were just gone forever.  I don’t have one single recording of Mom’s voice.  Not a single poor-quality video tape of her singing Happy Birthday to me or my brother.  Nothing.  I would give anything to hear her say my name, or ask for a glass of water, or yell at the cat for knocking something over.  No one ever tells you how much value a voice holds, and that there is nothing that will fill the void that it leaves. 

So I save too many voicemails now.  They are my security blanket.  Because if I have them, those people can’t leave me entirely, no matter what.  I will always have a little tiny something to hold onto.   And sometimes a little tiny something can be the thing that keeps you sane.