The Phone Call

It comes at hours unpredictable,

The call we never want to get

Strident and shrill, shattering the quiet hours

A dark harbinger of the message it carries

Like a croaking raven's shrieks as it swoops down to capture a mouse.

It is the sound that signals something is amiss.

No one calls at this hour or on this day.

Yet the ringing continues, loud and instant

A dissonant clamoring demanding attention.

Your tentative “hello?” hides your fears.

Surely it is a wrong number, you think as you brace your soul.

The voice says your name, asking if you are you.

Your reply of “yes” begins the pulse-beat of fear

You hold your breath and wait

Mind skittering from one beloved face to another

A grotesque roulette wheel emblazoned by a death head.

Scythe swinging as a name is spoken

Your gasp of pain silences the caller.

Your world dissolves

Cold facts sweeps hope away

Forcing you to ask for the news again.

“What?” you say, disbelieving, needing the repetition

To sear the truth on your broken heart.

Gone in an instant. Deceased.

Disconnected, tears streaming,

You open the phone, select a name, and make the call.

By Kathleen K Chamberlin