The Number on the Fridge

The number on the fridge
I still remember where it was

Mrs. Bell lived past the corner
In the house with the uneven step
Mama wrote her number on a piece of paper
Underneath my second-grade photograph
When the bus was late and Mama worked till evening
There'd be sandwiches and room for me
She'd ask about the things I wasn't good at
And listen like she had nowhere to be

The number on the fridge
Was a voice that always made some room
You could call without a good enough reason
She'd say, I was hoping it was you

We moved away the spring I turned eleven
The magnet broke; the paper disappeared
Mama called her every other Sunday
Then every other month became a year
When her husband died, we drove back for the service
I stood inside the kitchen after dark
She made us tea and asked about our children
I finally asked her how her mornings are

She said the house was fine until the evening
Then the television had too much to say
I wrote my number on the back of an old envelope
She asked me if I meant most any day
Last Tuesday she called while I was cooking
I almost let it ring until I'd done
Then heard myself say, Tell me what's been happening
She said, Not much, and we talked till half past one

The number on the fridge
Was a voice that always made some room
You could call without a good enough reason
She'd say, I was hoping it was you

The number on the fridge
In a kitchen that I knew
You can call without a good enough reason
I was hoping it was you