Voicemails from the Crash

Message 1: Sunday, 2:14 a.m.

I should’ve called before the storm rolled in. I could see it breaking over the lake, the way it does when you’re just a little too high and still think you’ll make it.

You made that face when I said it once.
You always took metaphors too seriously.

Anyway. I’m okay.

Message 2: Tuesday, 5:47 p.m.

I found your jacket. The old one from the garage, with the missing cuff button.

It still smells like you, which is strange. I don’t know what you smell like anymore.

I folded it. It’s on the wing. I mean—it’s in the wing.

I didn’t mean to say that.

Message 3: Thursday, 4:01 a.m.

They weren’t screaming.

I know you think they were.

You get that look. You think too loud. I could always tell.

But they weren’t.

I was there.

I just—I couldn’t say anything. That’s different.

Message 4: Saturday, 3:09 p.m.

The boy wanted the window seat.

I said no. I told him to let his mother sit there. He pouted. You know how kids are.

But I gave in.

I gave in.

He liked the clouds.

Message 5: Monday, 6:02 a.m.

You were always good at math.
No sarcasm. I just mean…

You’d know how long it takes to fall.

I still don’t.

Message 6: [Timestamp corrupted]

They told me I died before it happened.

I hope that helps.

I really do.

I just—
they stopped telling me things after that.

Message 7: Sunday, 1:00 a.m.

I took you flying once, remember?

You looked out the whole time, like you knew you weren’t staying.

I thought you were being dramatic.

Now I think maybe you saw it coming.

Message 8: Tuesday, 9:17 p.m.

There was this moment—right before we dropped—

where everything went so quiet I thought maybe it worked.

Maybe I’d done it right this time.

Funny, isn’t it?

Even then, I thought I’d pulled it off.

Message 9: Friday, 2:06 a.m.

I keep calling because I think you’re going to answer.

I think you’re going to say it.

Just once.
Say it back. Even if you hang up after.
Even if you lie.

Message 10: Wednesday, 11:42 a.m.

Your mother never liked my voice on tape.

She said it sounded like I was trying too hard to be calm.

I used to think that was unfair.

Now I hear it too.

Message 11: [No timestamp. File auto-deleted, recovered from backup]

If I say I’m sorry, it ends.

If I say I’m sorry, you’ll stop listening.

I don’t think I can lose that again.

Message 12: Sunday, 10:41 a.m.

I was thinking—

We could try again.

Not everything, just—

just the part where—

[static]

[wind]

[a sharp metallic groan]

[a sudden, concussive impact]

[recording ends]