Grandmother

The old recorder on a faded wooden table, plays the only tape in her house. Morning and before the day ends, various voices float across her room, decorated with collages of pictures. Of friends, family and holidays.
Her grandmother used to turn on the tape, on the same recorder and listen to an array of voices, speaking a strange tongue, everyday.
A frail, quiet woman.
It was the same tape that she heard, each day.
She is gone.
The grand daughter, turns on the tape like her grandmother did long ago.
Every day. Staring at the collage of pictures in her room.