a year
A year today. Friday.
I'm reading The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. There is a woman in it, Tamina, who tries to get back her old letters and diaries because she is afraid she is forgetting her husband.
I have been afraid of forgetting Pavel's voice. Tonight I listened to the only voicemail I kept on my old phone:
Marto, I'm at the Dvořáks', their Petrof is a disaster, I'll be late.
Eleven seconds. I listened to it nine times, then I stopped, because I didn't want to wear it out.