So, the phone rings again
This time, it is not the cellphone
But the antiquated landline
That goes off into its own zone
As it chimes one at a time.

He looks at the grey device
And wonders about a minute hence.

Will she do this year?
Will she remember?
Will she follow protocol?
Will she, at last, call?

The lilies have come
So have the chocolates filled with rum.

Will she forgive him?
Will she redeem his sin?
Will she Unsee all things?
Will she bury her (bad) memories?

The phone has rung itself low
Almost seven times now
He moves toward it
– but is caught
Like a wicketkeeper
Frozen in time on the meadow green.

Like a cat he moves,
Unsure – of what he knows
His insides churning
His memory gurgling
And his brain’s hard disk crashing.

It all comes back like a drill
With one piercing shrill
As his head and heart tumble
And his face is pale.

Memory comes back
Pushes itself through the edges
The hurt moves faster
Than the love and cheer.

As he picks up the receiver,
It’s the ninth ring out there.
He breathes “Hello!”
And waits for a minute or two.

He knows she won’t answer
She never does – year after year.

Yet – the charade goes on
Of love and some unspoken affection.

Guilt eats him,
paws at him.
As he looks askance
Steals a glance
He knows it’s time
to move on and not run