The phone call, by Britta Benson

My mum died two years ago. Sometimes, in my dreams, I chat to her and we have long phone calls, from soul to soul. When I wake up, there’s always the harsh, awkward moment, when I realize, it was just a dream. There is, however, also the feeling of gratitude, that I had a nice little chat with mum, just like we used to have, just like we always will.

The phone call


in that sweet spot

when days fall off cliffs

and souls can wander on any given cloud,

we chat forever.

Neither of us rang.

We meet out of time,

I’m five, I’m twenty, fifty one.

I hear you smile patiently,

as my heart leans against yours

for a goodnight kiss across worlds.

Then, the alarm goes off,

lights on, and the line is dead.

We, however,

we’re still smiling.

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