Scrolling down the list of numbers stored in my cellphone is a jarring reminder of how many of my saved contacts are no longer with us. More than a couple belong to folks who’ve crossed on, and for the life of me, I can’t bring myself to delete or rename those saved numbers. While some are no longer in service, it still tugs at a part of my soul to scroll across archived text conversations from years gone by. Voicemail inboxes that hold that familiar voice, whether singing or just checking in, will stay with me as long as feasible.
If I could go back to ’89, I’d back out of that baseball card trade for the season set of the Braves, just so I could still think I had something. I wouldn’t pack them to school in that old field jacket pocket. Your desk may have still ended up wrapped in that ribbon, but it would be worth a shot. I’d rewind to ’06 gladly, and we’d sit on that pond bank just a little longer, acting like the word tumor was a foreign language. One more catfish probably wouldn’t weigh enough to stop the hands of time, but we’d try to tie it on for the outside chance it worked.
I’d push pause and walk the railroad tracks with Granny Rea one more trip, listening to a rant about whatever, as she unknowingly cemented herself as the greatest grandmother ever. Rolling the decades back, I’d never get out of that truck bed, staring out the side glass of that camper top. The stars along the Kentucky River sparkled down through the screen mesh of those sliding windows, and it seemed like the good times would never end as the fish broke water across the way. I'd never ask about leaving with hopes you'd be stuck on that blue Igloo cooler for eternity.
If I could change things, I’d pull one more oak log out of the woods, tied behind that 1952 Case SC, and hear that near-maniacal laugh as the front end bounced along the dirt path. I’d probably cut a few fewer pasture-field donuts in your old square-body Chevy, prolonging its life. I’d change some things. I’d alter the timeline. I’d say some more, and less, to each of you who’ve passed on, leaving me here to wonder. I’d slow the moments down and listen a little closer, just to see if I could distinguish how fast the clock was ticking. I’d do a lot of things differently, but I still wouldn’t take your numbers out of my phone.
Time is undefeated, and it will consume us all. Perhaps I wouldn’t change anything, but we’d laugh one more time. We’d pick at each other once more. I’d hug you a little tighter before we walked out the door. Those numbers in my phone make me smile, even with a hint of sadness. I still message your defunct inbox. I still chuckle at the voicemails and the old memories. Of all the things I wish were different, I wouldn’t change the connections, the old times, or those random digits stitched together in a contact list, making up your old phone number.
I still can’t take your numbers out of my phone.
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