Literature
Memories of Brass and Blue
Clack.
That was our home phone, settling unevenly in its base after a ride in my mother's not-quite-steady fingers.
"Well, what happened?" That was Dad, his voice dressing that special kind of casual that camouflages apprehension in front of children. But we were all adults, at this point.
"She passed away." Mom, using words that seemed too formal for her own mom. Looking back, I'm pretty sure she was trying not to cry.
"..."
And that was me. I did something that was a bit more soundless: I turned myself off. My brother exited the living room in silence, and my father embarked on a stream of consolation phra