Word Count: 362
The phone rang and I climbed down from the ladder to answer it. I was expecting a call. I’d left questions on a tape at my health insurance office and three days later, I figured they’d be only too happy to claim that I missed the call.
It was my neighbor, a widow next door. For fifteen years she has used me as a lookout for the mailman (remedied by suggesting to her that as a handicapped person, she can request doorstep delivery) and tester on her phone systems (persistent title). While she had argued with me when I politely told her the car phone was ear-splitting loud, I’m still trusted to answer her phone when she calls me to see if it works. And to call her back to make sure it rings and to adjust the voice level at her end. Though I’ve also suggested that she call her landline phone from her mobile and vice versa, somehow she’d prefer to use me.
So when she came home from shopping for yet another new phone it happened to collide with my being up on a stepladder wrestled into place amid furniture since we’ve little room to move things around. I was painting the ceiling. It was a balancing act of stretching on tiptoes, straining arms with a dripping white painted roller. To jump out of this scenario to the phone would have been laughable to watch, though I’d expect some sympathy on the twisted ankle. She was patient and let the phone ring annoyingly long while I limped to answer. I growled my hello. She didn’t notice nor hear my excuse why it took me so long. The whole thing escalated from there.
See, just when I got back up on the ladder, she called again.
So I sit here staring at the casket. Feel horrible as I murmur regrets to her grown daughters. If only I’d answered the phone. I wish I just had. She’d still be alive I’m sure. Letting years of pent up anger overrule patience. How could I?
But what’s done is done, I suppose. There are always regrets. And I can’t unstrangle her now.
Of course you can’t … and nor should you.
Well at least I got this one out of my system!