Like an alcoholic privately sipping from a well-hidden bottle of wine, I find myself giving in to a strong pull. But there’s always a tug of war along the way: “My rational self says: “Don’t do it to yourself, Carrie. Too painful”…..While my more impulsive self whispers: “Go ahead. You miss him. You need this.”
So on those days when longing overtakes reason and self-protection, I pick up my phone and hide away in my room.
I know exactly where to find them, marked by date. They’re voicemails from Steve, left in the months before his death. Many are just everyday business: passing on referrals, asking if I could go to the bank, or if I needed anything from the store.
But my favorite one came on a busy weekday when I was doing the “Swim Mom” thing with Ellie, and we weren’t due home until about 9:00 p.m. It’s nothing fancy–just Steve, in an upbeat mood, saying: “Hi, Girls! If you want to tell me what to make for dinner, I could have it ready when you get home.”
A bittersweet reminder of his generous spirit. Sometimes I listen over and over. I wish you could hear it. It’s the sound of love.