Maybe it's because my back is killing me.

Maybe it's because I've had this chronic shooting pain in my leg since the summer.

Maybe it's because the surgery that was supposed to fix it all doesn't seem to be working.

It could be that someone less than considerate stole all of the damn tires off my Jeep the other night.

Or perhaps it's that my oldest daughter told me to "fuck off" on Instagram the week before last.

Whatever it was made me sit in my car, alone in the driveway, in silence.

It made me pick up my phone and scroll through my voicemail messages.

I wasn't checking for anything new.

I was looking for something old. 

I knew exactly where it was. 

Third from the bottom, right after the message from the meatball when she was 3, asking me if I'd be home for dinner. Man, she had such a cute voice. 

I save old voicemails like I save old photographs.

I keep them stashed in their digital drawer and forget about them for awhile.

So I press play and you talk to me as if it were a message from this morning. You tell me how your phone is "driving you bananas". You can't seem to remember why you called or if I had called you first and like every other phone call ever, you end it by saying, "love ya brotha". 

This happens every so often. 

I just need to talk to my best friend. I just need to complain a little and then hear you tell me to "stop being such a pussy."

That's all.

Put the photograph back in the drawer until the next time.

I miss you brotha.

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