Vox Meditantis

I miss the weight of waiting –
that coiled cord spiralling down
from kitchen wall to floor,
how I’d wrap it round my finger
while my friend’s mum called her to the phone.

The static crackle of distance,
the way we’d stretch the cable
round corners, under doors,
carving out a pocket of privacy
in a house that heard everything.

Now my daughter touches glass
and faces appear –
no anticipation, no wondering
if they’re home, if they’ll answer,
no rehearsing what to say.

She doesn’t know the small forever
between rings two and three,
or how we’d memorise numbers
like prayers, like poems,
seven digits holding someone’s whole world.

I keep the old cream telephone
on a shelf – disconnected, ornamental –
its rotary dial still smooth
under my thumb when I pass.
A relic. A reminder.

That waiting was a kind of wanting.
That distance was a kind of devotion.

Bob Lynn | © 2026 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved. | Prompt by Eric Foltin