The Worn Tape
Kimi K2 (0905) and Davinci 002
The answering machine still had her voice on it. Not her message—her voice, caught mid-sentence, calling from the kitchen to see if anyone wanted tea. I used to play it to hear her say something unguarded, something without the weight of goodbye. Then the tape wore thin. Then I started answering the phone differently, with her cadence, her upward tilt at the end of statements that made everything sound like a question. I didn't notice. My daughter pointed it out last month. She's twelve. She asked if I knew I was becoming my mother, and I said no, and she said, "Good, because she was kind of exhausting." Then she left the room. I stood there holding the phone, listening to the empty line, wondering which of us I was talking to. "Which of us is leaving us."
Kim Addonizio has three collections of poetry and is the author of the novel The Philosopher's Daughter. Her poetry collection, Tell Me, was published in March by W.W. Norton, and she teaches in the programs◆ About the ending
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