*Disconnected

I enter the cold, abandoned room.  My eyes are quickly drawn to a deep window sill.  There sitting alone, is a telephone.  Perhaps three-quarters of a century old it, has become a forgotten relic of the past....




A sort of melancholy drags through my heart.  I long to pick up the receiver and feel it's weight in my hand, to press the cold hardness against my warm ear, and sense the mouth piece against my lips.
                                                
I would like to talk to a spirit from the past.  What would they tell me, that they were happy here?  That life was too difficult and joy came only in fleeting moments?  I try and imagine the conversations that flowed through this wire.  Maybe a peevish exchange between two disgruntled neighbors, the wonderful news of the birth of a child, the downcast delivery of a death in the family or a covert conversation between a man and his mistress?   

A thousand or more discussions shared through this line, bridging time and space.  Connecting two people with the power of the spoken word.  I find it eerie, in a lovely sort of way that I am completely detached from the present.  I do not want to leave this place for fear that I will be forced to relinquish all that I feel and what emotion that was stirred here will be forgotten - like this old telephone.