I once heard a voicemail,

A ghostly whisper through static.

My grandfather’s voice,

Heavy from the weight of hospital walls.

“Hey son,” he said,

“Thanks for stopping by that day,

It meant the world to me.“

His words rolled in like thunder,

Drowning out the sterile quiet of my room,

A storm of his pride,

The kind that wraps around you like a warm coat.

“You made me proud,” he continued,

“You’ve grown into someone

I always knew you could be.”

Time collapsed.

His words built bridges,

And I could see his smile

Like a lighthouse, cutting through the fog.

He spoke of moments

Captured in the soft click of a camera.

In the warmth of a hug.

In the bittersweet taste of goodbye.

“Keep remembering,” he urged,

Inviting me to linger

In the chapters of his stories;

The pages of our shared history.

The message ended.

But the silence felt heavier than absence,

And I clung to his words like a lifeline.

So here I stand in the shadow of his voice,

Knowing he listens.

As I hear the voice again,

I find reasons to believe

In the strength of a visit…

In the echo of love that never really dies.

(c)BobChristian2025