254-6...something
“Could it be under your Dad’s?” A simple question asked in the middle of an auto store from my mom. “What’s the number? I’ll give it a try,” from the salesman trying to locate the warranty on an almost-too-old battery.
What’s the number? What’s the number? A pause and a horrible feeling of guilt. “254-6....”
How could I forget your number? I used to call it all the time, receiting it out loud for my car to dial because the voice recognition never worked. You never changed it from when you first got a cell, converting it to an internet line when you left the country so the number never went away. How could I forget? The last message from the number was a notification a month after you left. “Dad cell has left family sharing.” I left my grocery cart in the middle of the store to run to the car and cry.
“254-6....... I’m sorry, is there another way?”
I’m sorry I forget, Dad. At some point in the last 4 years I lost your number. I worry I’ll continue to forget all these little things and someday there won’t be enough of them to form a whole of you in my mind. Is there another way than this?
