The Verizon Store

After my dad died, my mom went to Verizon to transfer their cell phone contract
to her name. Your husband will need to verify this change, the woman behind

the counter told her. But he’s dead, my mom replied, which seemed to stymie
the woman, who had a form and needed a signature. So he won’t be able to sign

the form, my mom continued. We need confirmation, the manager, summoned
from the back office, explained. I was at work when she called. I’m going home

to get Dad, she told me. My dad is in a small box on the top shelf of the hall closet
next to the hat bin. It’s been 3 months since he died. The sorrow is less precise,

the air less stilled. The manager was at lunch when my mom returned with my dad
in a tote bag. I’ll wait, she explained to the original woman with the form, pulling

a chair by the window up to the desk and positioning my dad squarely on her lap.
When the manager returned from lunch, my mom was still holding my dad, quietly

telling him that the geraniums he’d planted in the backyard were still in bloom and
she was remembering to let the soil dry before watering and he was right – the apricot

colored ones were the most beautiful. The manager waited until my mom finished
telling my dad about the geraniums before placing her hand on my mom’s shoulder

and telling her this was proof enough.

Michelle Matz is the author of Acoustic Shadow (Main Street Rag, 2024). Michelle’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Salamander Magazine, The Lascaux Review, Mud Season Review, Verse Daily, and 3rd Wednesday. Michelle lives in San Francisco where the neighbors gather every Wednesday evening to sip wine on a neighbor’s front steps.