Every time I call my husband and he doesn’t pick up, I’m taken back to a good place. A better time.
Because when he doesn’t pick up, his voice mail does.
Just a simple, to-the-point greeting, recorded many years ago. Many tears ago.
The sound of his assured voice, before he was broken by PTSD, now breaks me inside. I can still hear his smile in that voice. And I still grieve for that man.
I hope he never changes the recording.
I still need to hear that voice.
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