I recall only fragments of the old place. The rotary phone in the upstairs hallway—was it pinkish beige like the one downstairs with the cord snaking through the living room from the dining room to the family room? It might have been avocado or mustard. A month after Dad died, I dialed the number just to hear his voice. I clearly remember those phones ringing upstairs and downstairs, both ringers set on loud. The recording said he couldn’t come to the phone right now, but if I left a message and my number, he’d get back to me.
on the bayberries