When the Home Phone No Longer Rang

The whisper of what lingers

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When I was little, I could only make a phone call to my mom, who worked in a big city, on my birthday.

Installing a telephone was expensive, and only a few wealthy families and small shops in our village had one. My grandparents didn’t like the couple who ran the small shop, as they often sold things short and charged high long-distance fees. My mom and uncles, who were also working away from home, were left with no choice but to ask the few families with phones to arrange a time for us to call, so we would go over and wait.

Grandpa hated socializing and didn’t like asking for help, so Grandma would always take me or my cousin to answer the call. The calls were usually scheduled for the evening. Grandpa didn’t get involved, but he would keep an eye on the time, starting to remind us to leave at least half an hour before the scheduled time.

Grandma, after hearing him, would complain a little, then grab the flashlight, tap it on its back for luck, and slowly lead me to the other side of the village. At night, everything was silent; every door was closed, and the light from the flashlight cast a pale glow, turning the dark mountains and bamboo groves into looming shapes that seemed to breathe in the stillness. My eyes would wander, gripping Grandma’s hand, scaring…