2 AM Laura Grace Dame The landline. Ringing at the wrong time like it always does. Ringing during the program instead of during the commercial. Ringing during dinner instead of after. Ringing in the middle of the night instead of first thing in the morning. Ringing right now— 2am. I’ve listened to its cyclical weeping once already. I let it "cry it out,” like it's a child that I have to sleep train. But the electronic tears won’t wear the phone out in the way a child exhausts themselves with crying; The phone will keep crying as long as it needs to, as long as it is asked to. Like an alarm system panel by my bed, the lights on the phone dock and the handheld glow and flash; the phone wails into the room, throwing a tantrum for my attention. I’m staring at it, my fidgeting fingers begging it to stop. I wish I could squint my ears and not be able to hear the plaintive trills. Unexpected 2 AM phone calls seem to ring in a pitying, melancholy way like the landline knows it's zipping bad news to your ear. To your life. I have to pick up, face the agony. Three simple steps, I tell myself. Like I’m in the infomercial for this super special deluxe brand of telephone: 1) press the translucent button! 2) say hello! 3) listen to foggy tones of devastation and grief. After I hang up, I don’t bother to tuck the phone back in. I don’t bother sliding it back into its cradle, because now I’m the one crying in bed like a child desperate for comfort. And I know no one’s going to pick me up. No one’s going to cradle me against their face. No one’s going to listen to why I’m ringing in the night.
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