Melissa Gira

After I record my message, there is the pause. The pause means that somewhere, a computer is listening, assessing and processing the sound of my voice. I have a theory that everywhere, all pauses are related: the pause between punching my PIN into the bank machine, and hearing the cash rustle. The electronic silence between songs on the radio. The emotional space that hangs in the air after the words “I love you” come out. I hear the faintest bleeds from the old calypso music in my mind, scoring this telephone pause, and I remember why my mother hated to hear music play during her last weeks in the hospital. It’s wrong to pollute the pause with sound.