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My phone stares me down, the light of the television bouncing off its face, reminding me of the calls I used to receive- the good calls that ended nice and ended well; the ones that lit me up; the ones where goodbye was never an option and hanging up was only a minor delay until her voice called again, asking about my day, or what we were going to eat for dinner.

The phone tricks me on nights like this; tricks my ears into listening for a past I no longer live.

If I could walk into my phone I would. Digitize myself into numbers that she could dial. iJordan with the gadgets and map services that could direct her back to this quiet home.

And what’s all this mean for you?

Probably nothing.

Maybe you are thinking what is this guy talking about?

But my writing goes that way, a solitary session with unvoiced sentiments and randomized words that often sing only to me. Or scream to me. Or laugh at me. Or pity me. Or slap me like a girl once did in the movie theater of my hometown, with the adolescent world watching.

Andy remembers. I told him about it. We laugh at it now. I didn’t laugh then.

So this phone lights with false hope, or maybe fortitude, to see if I can refrain from punching those numbers I know so well. I can tip in either direction, depending on the time of day, or silence of night. But for now I hold strong, stalwart defense.

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