Mother’s Phone, by Lleyton Kane

Mother’s Phone – Died 2025
Her number still works.
I call it so the satellites remember her orbit.
A woman I don’t know answers.
I say nothing.
Silence transfers like currency.

Voicemail
She has five saved messages—
all from me.
Each begins with the weather,
ends with apology.
Her recorded voice says she can’t come to the phone right now.
She already hasn’t.

Contacts
Every name still alphabetical,
except mine, which she renamed Home.
I scroll until the glass warms.
Heat passes for presence.

Camera Roll
Screenshots of recipes.
The dog she didn’t outlive.
A selfie she took by accident—
her eye a small moon
studying itself.

Settings
I try Erase All Content and Settings.
The phone asks for a passcode.
I type her birthday, my birthday,
the year she died.
All incorrect.

Notes
Last entry: Don’t forget milk.
I never do.
I forget everything else.

Mother’s Phone – Buried 2026
In the drawer beside her glasses.
It still lights up sometimes,
not with calls—
just reminders:
Update Available.