My grandmother called on a Sunday in May. I was in the middle of something — I don’t even remember what — and I let it ring. She left a voicemail. It was forty seconds long. She said she’d made dumplings and accidentally made too many again. Her voice was unhurried. It sounded like she had all the time in the world.
She died three weeks later. I still have the voicemail. I’ve listened to it maybe twice — it’s too much, most days, to hear how ordinary it was. How she had no idea. How I had no idea either.
What I carry now is this: the people who love you are always just living their regular Tuesday, calling to say they made dumplings. You don’t get a signal that it’s the last time. You only know after. So pick up. Pick up when you can.