The Voicemail I Never Got

by Allie Piccalo

A moment frozen in time, but a love that lasts forever

There’s a particular kind of silence that fills the space around you after a loved one is gone. It’s not just the absence of their voice- it's the missing their phone calls, their texts that will never be answered, the words you’ll never hear again. When my grandmother passed away in 2021, that silence felt absolutely deafening. I never got to say goodbye. 

If I could have one more moment, just one more message, I know exactly what I wish it would be. A voicemail, just a simple voicemail with her loving voice on the other end.  

“Hey, my little PITA… it’s been a while, and I hope you’re doing well.”

She always called me that. It was her teasing me, but I knew it meant love. I would give anything to hear her say it one more time, to have her remind me, in that half-sarcastic but completely affectionate way, that I was special to her. 

“I never needed a goodbye to know how much you cared.”

That one simple sentence is what I hope she is saying from above—that it’s okay I couldn’t be there because she knew how much I loved her. I hope she truly knew how much I wanted to be there, how much I wanted to hold her hand one last time, and how much it hurt to lose her. Cancer not only took her piece by piece but also robbed us of the time we should have had. First, her strength. Then, her voice. Then, she was gone. 

When I was younger, I would always tell her about the perfect guy I hoped to meet one day, about how I imagined my wedding, and all the little details that meant so much to me. She was always the one I could confide in, the one who would listen to my hopes and reassure me that everything would fall into place. I wish she could be there to see it, to share in that joy with me—laughing, offering advice, and telling me how proud she was. I can’t help but feel like a part of me is missing in those moments. 

Now, her house—the place where she raised a family, where laughter echoed through the walls as my cousins, and I ran through the halls where I spent my childhood—is being emptied. Soon, it will belong to someone else. The home where I played, where we celebrated holidays, where she passed away while I wasn’t there—it’s slipping away, too. I’ll never run through those rooms again, never hear her calling after me from the kitchen, never sit beside her on the couch. 

"I need you to do something for me, okay? Keep going. Keep doing big things. I know you will."

As she will forever remain 75, I will continue to grow. I am now 21 years old, finding myself looking up to her for advice even though she is no longer here to give it. I wish I could tell her about all the big achievements and goals I have reached, the things I know would make her proud. I wonder what she would say if she could see the person I am becoming. I wonder if she already does. 

I always wanted to keep a part of her with me. That’s why my first tattoo was for her. On the left side of my ribs, close to my heart, are roses—her birth month flowers. Beneath them, in delicate script, are the words, “I Love You” in her handwriting, taken from an old birthday card she gave me. She’s not here physically, but in a sense, she always will be.  

She wrote those words without knowing they’d one day become a permanent part of me. Now, they are inked into my skin, just as she is forever imprinted on my heart. When the ache hits, the tattoo holds the memory of her, a quiet reminder she’s still here. 

I think about all the little things I never got to say. I wish I had thanked her for every meal she made, for every time she picked me up when I fell, for every story she told me before bed. I wish I had told her how much she shaped me, how much of her kindness and strength lives on in me. But grief is cruel like that—it leaves you with words unspoken, moments unfinished. 

But, in some ways, she still finds her way back to me. Her favorite animal was a cardinal. She always loved them; said they were a sign of something special; love and guidance. After she passed, my family and I started buying cardinal decorations-paintings, ornaments, and even jewelry- just to feel as if she is still with us. And every time I see one, perched on a branch or fluttering by my window, I pause. I like to believe she is checking in on me, reminding me that she is still here in quiet moments, watching over me, proud as ever.  

“Keep going, my girl. You’ve made me proud every step of the way.”

She always believed in me. I wish I had heard her say it one more time. Maybe then, the ache in my chest wouldn’t feel so heavy. Maybe then, the silence wouldn’t be so loud. 

But even without the voicemail, I know what she would have said. And maybe, in some way, that’s enough.  

“I know how much you love me. I’ve always known.”