Voicemails die hard

I'm a voicemail packrat. I save them as if they're shiny pieces of tinfoil, digitized keepsakes of my very own.

They seem meaningful. They are.

Yet meanings change, and so do people, and so have I.

She punched my digits into her cell phone three years ago. Like shiny pieces of tinfoil for my heart, her voicemails were gifts from the divine, messages we later lived out together.

And today I erased two old voicemails, two digitized, divine keepsakes. Their memory and lessons they taught have left me ready for meaning greater than any packrat could ever know.