Ghosts

It rings in a cavernous hammock. No location, only a prodding to respond to the dark. It is my parents calling from a Bakelite planet; I imagine retracing a long flex to a whirling dial. I hold the heavy handset to my ear: 'hello mum, hi dad' - the phone is an electronic hiss of dead air. I sense they want to speak, but they're too far away. Words fizz in my skull. Whatever they have to say belongs to a yesterday I can no longer relate to.