Mary was in the kitchen when she heard the familiar ring of her landline telephone in the living room. With a knowing smile, she wiped her feeble hands on her apron and shuffled across the linoleum to receive the call. She picked up the phone with care, as though an injured bird were cupped between her hands.

“Hello,” she prompted.

There was silence at first- a long period of silence. Mary did not hang up. Instead, she folded her free hand in to her lap and waited, smiling warmly. Out of the silence came a voice.

“H-hello,” it echoed. The voice belonged to a male. He sounded young, but absent of youth. It was a familiar voice, one that Mary had grown accustomed to hearing. They were words without the semantics- a call for help that had come to expect silence in return. Mary could hear his jagged breaths. With gentle discernment, she replied to him.

“What’s the matter? I’m ready to listen.”

“…This isn’t how these talks usually go.”

There was a shadow of emotion in his voice. That was a good sign. Perhaps this one wouldn’t hang up.

“Is this not the suicide hotline?” he queried. His tone suggested that he already knew the answer. Mary chuckled.

“No dear. I’m afraid you are one digit off. It’s two-one-one-three. You’ve called two-one-one-two. Regardless, I’m willing to talk about whatever it is you want to get off your chest. You’re not the first, you know.”

“That’s awfully audacious of you, don’t you think? Just because you’ve gotten called, on accident, by a couple of suicidal people, you think you can take what could possibly be their very lives in to your hands? What makes you think that you have any knowledge about this sort of thing?”

Mary’s voice did not waver.

“You’re free to go at any time. I’m not keeping you here; I’m just saying that I’m ready and willing to listen.”

There was more silence. Seconds had passed and there was no dial tone. Mary sat down in her favorite chair by the fire and began to rock slowly, nursing the phone by her ear. She looked straight ahead, not seeing what was in front of her, but rather, her consciousness occupied the small, intimate space that now hosted herself and the caller.

“What’s your name?” she ventured.

“Joe,” came the response, “and you are?”

“I’m Mary.”

“Don’t you have anything better to be doing, Mary? Why would you take time out of your day to talk to a complete stranger?”

Mary glanced over to her coffee table. Small, faded photos adorned the glass. They were glimpses of a time Mary once called familiar. Now, she struggled to recall them. All the smiles that met her gaze seemed so empty. She looked away, bringing herself back to the conversation.

“Well Joe. If I were to let you hang up without at least offering a chance to talk to someone about how you feel, what kind of person would I be?”

“What makes you think that some stranger on a phone can help me?”

“If you didn’t think a stranger on a phone could help you, why did you call a suicide hotline?”

“Honestly? I didn’t even want to call. My friends made me do it. They’re all so scared of the word suicide; their immediate response is to pass me off to the “professionals” and hope that they can cure me by throwing medicine at me. I just want to talk to my friends, but they all see me as this…this monster. I never thought the people I’ve spent years with could be so shitty and unwilling to listen. They have their own concept of an ideal world, and if my sadness doesn’t fit that ideal, they reject me like I’m some sort of anomaly. How am I supposed to live in a world in which I only have myself to rely on? Do you know what it’s like to be completely alone?”

Joe was breathing heavily. He had broken in to a sob, and his voice was wet. Still, Mary smiled and listened.

“They think that the doctors will be able to help. They’re SO sure that if I go get myself committed, that I’ll be a better, more functional part of their world. But I know the stories, Mary. Did you know that once, in Nevada, an asylum put a clinically diagnosed schizophrenic man on a bus to California just to get rid of him? I can’t go there, but where else am I supposed to go? I’m out of options, Mary… everyone has left me…”

Mary’s eyes softened as she turned again to look at the array of photos. On the table, she saw her two beautiful daughters. On top of their round, blushed faces sat ringlets of gorgeous auburn hair, much like Mary’s own in her youth. Their lively, hazel eyes were always such a warm presence for Mary. They would be the first to leave her.

In the next frame, Mary saw herself, embracing another woman with the same thin nose and wiry jawline. Her sister was a confident woman and extremely supportive. Though even she, too, would walk away.

Then, she saw herself, with her hands placed gently, yet assuredly, on the hand of a man. She was smiling and so was he. Her husband was hardy, responsible and patient. When Mary absolutely couldn’t place a foot outside the door of their townhome, he was there with a supportive hand, reassuring her that her world was small, yet filled to the very brim with love. All of Mary’s consciousness occupied that house. The wooden walls were her skin and the hearth was her beating heart, burning gently with love for the man that occupied the halls that were her veins. Even though the real world was too big for her to inhabit, she felt wholesome in her house filled with love.

His death sapped the walls of their rich, earthen glow and dimmed the hearty flame of its alacrity. Mary had lost the inhabitants of her world, and never before had the emptiness felt so vast. All that remained were the shadows they left behind-the essence of the vibrant emotions from a time gone by. Now, after 30 years of solitude, Mary began to lose her faith in those memories. They seemed tenebrous and remote. Mary was thoroughly acquainted with being alone.

“It’s a rather large emptiness, isn’t it?” she mused.

“Y-yeah…” There was more silence as both sat in contemplation. In that moment, the emptiness seemed a bit smaller.

“Joe, I don’t even know where you are. Maybe I can’t do anything from my home to help you. The only thing I can offer is my presence. I’m really very open to listening.”

The breathing on the other end slowed. The sharp, pained breaths were slowly replaced with warm, gentle tufts of air. The slow ebbing of Joe’s breath comforted Mary. She felt the embrace of his trust and the company of his momentary happiness.

“Mary, I’m going to go. Please take care of yourself.”

A dial tone. With a cold finality, Joe had hung up, leaving Mary once again, alone in her home. She returned the phone to its cradle and walked over to the hearth, where a few small embers still crackled. She took a match and tossed it in. She gave a soft smile as tiny flames began to lick the bottom of the scorched logs. A warm light was cast upon the pictures, almost giving them a living breath. Mary returned to the kitchen and retied her apron. She looked forward to hearing from Joe again.