Your voice is still the voice of the answering machine at Mom's house.
"You've reached the Dempsey's, you know what to do. Thank you."
It's been that greeting, in your voice, for as long as I can remember. We used to giggle, when we were kids, about "you know what to do." It seemed so subversive, somehow. You didn't come out and say "leave a message," you assumed people knew what they were doing.
What it was, really, was you. Straight to the point. Efficient. Polite.
Dad, every time I call Mom and she isn't home, YOU answer. Do you know how jarring that is, how hard to hear? Every time it happens, I vow to talk to Mom about thinking about changing the outgoing message on the machine, but I never do.
Today, walking down a bright and crisp Brooklyn street after my first day of work in ages, I felt positive, good. Mom had called, so I called her back. You answered. I left a quick message. It was quick because I wanted to make sure I hung up before the stifled crying became less stifled, before anyone heard.
I called to Mom on her cell. At the end of the conversation, I said "look, Mom, we may need to think about changing the answering machine recording." It upsets you. She said. I know. I don't know how to do it, but Marc and I can figure it out, she said.
"I don't want to delete him," I said, "but it's hard."
After we hung up, I almost called back immediately, or texted her, I wanted to retract my request. DO NOT DELETE HIM. Don't change that message, don't do it. It's not my decision, after all, is it? And I don't want you to be deleted.
I told Mom that the other option was that she could just always be home to answer the phone so I never have to hear the machine. I think that's a better option. I don't know. What do you think? You know what to do.
a
"You've reached the Dempsey's, you know what to do. Thank you."
It's been that greeting, in your voice, for as long as I can remember. We used to giggle, when we were kids, about "you know what to do." It seemed so subversive, somehow. You didn't come out and say "leave a message," you assumed people knew what they were doing.
What it was, really, was you. Straight to the point. Efficient. Polite.
Dad, every time I call Mom and she isn't home, YOU answer. Do you know how jarring that is, how hard to hear? Every time it happens, I vow to talk to Mom about thinking about changing the outgoing message on the machine, but I never do.
Today, walking down a bright and crisp Brooklyn street after my first day of work in ages, I felt positive, good. Mom had called, so I called her back. You answered. I left a quick message. It was quick because I wanted to make sure I hung up before the stifled crying became less stifled, before anyone heard.
I called to Mom on her cell. At the end of the conversation, I said "look, Mom, we may need to think about changing the answering machine recording." It upsets you. She said. I know. I don't know how to do it, but Marc and I can figure it out, she said.
"I don't want to delete him," I said, "but it's hard."
After we hung up, I almost called back immediately, or texted her, I wanted to retract my request. DO NOT DELETE HIM. Don't change that message, don't do it. It's not my decision, after all, is it? And I don't want you to be deleted.
I told Mom that the other option was that she could just always be home to answer the phone so I never have to hear the machine. I think that's a better option. I don't know. What do you think? You know what to do.
a
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