The last voicemail I received
came three days before my father died:
“Hello son, could you please
call me back, your mother’s been
trying to get a hold of you.
I should probably erase it,
instead of having to be reminded
that it needs to be resaved
every twenty-one days.
I was teaching a class
when he called,
and didn’t hear his message
until shortly after.
I don’t remember much else about that night.
I don’t remember any discussions with students,
or what I listened to as I drove home,
or any other calls or texts I might have received.
I don’t remember anything except
a total lunar eclipse had made the moon disappear
and I never did call him back.