The Call

I got a phone call today; just your standard, run of the mill, professional service call. I handled it in the same fashion that I handle all calls of this nature. I checked the voicemail a day late, returned the phone call, left a friendly and concise message with my name and phone number clearly stated at the beginning and the end of the message, hung up, and then waited for my call to be returned.

The familiarity of the situation began to change when my call was returned. Not only did my phone actually function appropriately, announcing the call with a standard ring, which most phones are accustomed to doing, but it also rang long enough for me to answer while the party still remained on the line. This is far from familiar, routine, regular, or mundane. This is unusual.

The content of the call, the reason, the purpose, well that’s yet to be determined. Was it to make me physically ill, freaked out and not knowing what to do with myself? Was it to give me peace and contentment, and eventual healing? Was it to add another chapter to Amy’s Book of Life? Or possibly solve a mystery contained within it? Or even finalize the book so that the cover may be closed once and for all? Only God knows that.

So, “What was this call?” you may be asking. “What’s the big deal?” “Here she goes again, with her drama, drama, drama.”

See, the opposite is true actually. I’m opposed to drama. I hate it. I have an adverse reaction to it. Breaking a nail, I like. Having a flat tire, I can throw a fit over. But life, that I prefer to be drama free, ordinary, uneventful, emotionless.

So now I’m left with the task of keeping this just that. How do I stuff this? How do I feel nothing? How do I return it to the usual, the normal, the boring, the mundane? How do I fit this into casual conversation, meaningless chit chat? I’m just not sure.

So, I will choose to stuff it for now, place it in the deep dark closet, that is my soul, hiding it away so that no one can see and I can hopefully forget. Shoving and pushing to fit it amidst the cluttered mass of things place here before. Hoping the door will never open to have it all come crashing out, one “it” on top of another, falling and crashing, never to end until I am surely buried in it, broken and breathless.

What will happen when that day comes? Only time will tell, but for now, I think I’ll go get the duct tape.