Landlines

by Suzy Eynon

I climb a hill and part overgrown raspberry vines to find a wind phone, the box mounted to an evergreen trunk. No wires to press lines into moss. I call my dead cat, whisper his name into the plastic receiver. I wish to send a message, but I receive unilateral transmissions. A bot bearing the name of my dead uncle requests to follow me. The sole like on my web site is from a departed friend. I block my mother-in-law on social media after I see her avatar—it’s a photo of my dead cat and appears in the you may know section as a suggested contact. Of course I know him. I watched him leave. I call my dead cat on the wind phone, and I say: I miss you. I carry a rootless memory from childhood: of reading, or watching, or hearing a prediction about all phones ringing in unison at the end of the world, before the collective lights go out. I grew up in the 1980s so all the memory phones are corded. Ears tethered. Life is lived in anticipation of a bell ringing, in the quiet just before the trill. Instead of one long tone, it comes at me in bursts, pulses. I’ve lost the decoder. No, I say: see you soon.

Suzy Eynon is a writer from Arizona. Her first book, Terrestrial, is forthcoming from Malarkey Books in May 2026. She’s the author of the prose chapbooks Commuting (Ghost City Press summer series) and Being Seen (Ethel Press). She lives in Seattle. Find her on social media @suzyeynon or http://suzyeynon.com.