Voices on the Phone

My mom calls me on the first of every month

She asks me if I have filled my prescription yet

I always say yes, and hold the veridian colored pills in my hand

The off-tint looks like seasickness stuck into a capsule

She reminds me I have god’s favor

And I let out a forced chuckle, but it doesn’t reach the other side of the phone

Our talks are never long, the trivial tone bouncing around my eardrums

Reminds me of memories I’d rather forget

I try to explain how my medication makes me feel

How I look at people all day, but they never look back and I’m starting to feel invisible

But she says it’s winter and my bones are just frigid

That it’s not what I’m doing, it’s just who I am

I try to say I feel like the pills just disintegrate in my hands

And that I breathe, but the air never reaches my lungs

I’m coughing mom, can you hear me?

She laughs, saying I’m dramatic, and talks about her lunch plans

The same useless things are talked about again

She mumbles away and I try to focus on the call

But I look at the scratches on the countertop

And think about how I can never keep things nice

There’s a sort of independence that comes with living alone

She tells me, a kind of oneness

But at what point does it make sense

When do I know if I’m wrapped in the stillness or if the noise is pulling me under?

Everything moves at god speed, she recites,

And then she reminds me it’s going to snow soon

It’s just like her to know the weather in my city better than I do

It’s just like her to not hear the voice in my words