an aching absence of song

by Alex Palmatier

You called me from jail a few times before you died. I imagine how you stood there, dialing the number you knew by heart, the same number I have today. Those calls taught me to pick up the phone for unknown numbers, because there was always the off chance that I would hear, “You have a call from Charlottesville Correctional Facility. This call will be recorded.” You sounded the best I’d ever heard you. Clear as day. Funny as hell. Your voice was smoother, like when we were kids, not slurred like it so often was before you got locked up; before you detoxed off the methadone. You were snarky and wishful and smart.

I wished they let you have a guitar in there. I used to think you’d make the best music while your mind was turned on and the world was tuned out. Your songs were like wolf howls and the thrumming of longing. They took us both someplace else. When you called, I would sit cross legged on my dorm room bed, skipping dinner at the dining hall as though we could stay on the line for hours and not just a few minutes. I was so glad that you were sober, even if this was the only way. Because talking to you was like being completely naked; being fully known.

In the end, heroin took your life. I wonder if you were put away for longer, things would have been different. Or if they gave you a guitar. What I would give to hear you play again.

Photo of Alex Palmatier

BIO: Alex Palmatier is an instructional coach, teacher, and writer. She lives in New York with her husband, son, and pet snake, Ziggy.