I memorized the number in kindergarten

The number to the kitchen wall phone with the twisted cord

Remember this number so you can always call mom or dad if you need them

My thumbs still recall the rhythm to dial home with such ease

Sometimes I let them tap the 10-digit beat against my phone screen like morse code 

An unsent SOS when grief wishes for parents with words warm enough to soften the world

But I am a stranger if not their daughter, worthy of blistering-hot venom

“You’ve ruined everything. No one will ever love a queer, will they?”

I should know better than to hope their tongues have cooled

So, no

I can’t call home anymore

And good god does it hurt

But what if what if what if what if

The two-word question thunders in my ears like a heartbeat

What if my mom answers and I’m six years old again? Hi mommy! 

/

Hi mommy,

I miss you. I thought I smelled your shampoo in the elevator yesterday. I never thought I’d be grieving you while you’re still alive. I still have your phone number. I could text you tonight. I could call you again tomorrow. After six years, would you please pick up?

Hi mom,

Does my embroidery still live above your desk? Do you miss my voice in the kitchen? Do you ever beg your god for forgiveness? Do you ever wish you’d chosen your baby over him?

Mama,

I’m happy now. I’m living in a big city with my husband who loves me, and we’ve never raised our voices or hands to each other. Do you ever wish you had gotten that kind of love? We haven’t checked the mail in three weeks, but I never forget the laundry in the washer. Anyway, I never stopped needing you.

Mom,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for tearing apart the family when you’re the one who should have done it long before I was born. I’m sorry I broke the silence you kept so carefully. I’m sorry I’ve forgotten the sound of the voice that sang me to sleep. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.