Phone Contacts I Can’t Delete

I was scrolling through my phone today to find the number of someone whose last name I forgot. That doesn’t generally happen so don’t call the dementia squad yet. (I just made that up – and apparently there really IS a Demential Squad…Dear God!) As I was scrolling, hoping this friend’s name would jump out, I saw names in there that made me ask…Who the. hell are you?

Sometimes I’ll meet someone on a walk, at a craft fair, or in a store selling something and I’ll put their name in my phone then a year later, I’ll wonder, Who is that? (A photographic memory will never be part of my epitaph.) I deleted a couple of people today who I completely zoned on. Then I came to the un-deletables.

They are the family and friends who have passed away, but who I will always love as if they are alive and waiting for me to pick up the phone. The list keeps getting longer and longer. It’s horrifying to realize that I now know more people at the cemetery than I do in the town of Rochester where my mom’s family and most of my parents’ friends were from.

I can’t delete my dad’s number, or Uncle Richard’s, or my second mom’s, Mrs. R. who just passed a few months ago. I can’t delete my God-son Marc, or my good friend Terry, both young men who left us without warning a couple years ago. There’s something so final about taking that number and address out that I just can’t do it.

I knew it couldn’t just be me, so I Googled it. A lot of people feel the same way and have very profound thoughts about it, like this blog post called, The Dead Among my Phone Contacts.

For me, it’s the little smile that crosses my face when I see that name and think of the last time we talked, or laughed, or danced in the kitchen together. I did that with my dad in his final years. We were in his kitchen with its hideous green speckled linoleum floors when the CD player on the kitchen counter began a lively tune, so I grabbed him to dance.

His eyes opened with such joyful surprise when he realized I was serious. He and I moved around the kitchen slowly, with me following his lumbering but sure dance steps. It’s one of those tender memories I fear I might not conjure up if I don’t come across his number every now and then.

I still have my last birthday message from Uncle Richard, where he sings the regular verse of Happy Birthday, then the verse my Italian family always sings because no birthday is complete without a nod to Catholicism. My mom ended every birthday song with this: “May the lady in blue, ever watch over you. Happy birthday dear (insert name here) happy birthday to you!”

Uncle Richard sings it then laughs and says, “I’m gettin’ all choked up.” I love that and never want to lose it, or Mrs. Riley singing me the birthday song with her dogs yelping in the background. I’m afraid if those names no longer show up, or I delete those precious messages, the memories might fade away too. And then it will be too real, too final.

And I wouldn’t dare call any of those numbers because if someone else answers the phone my perfect delusion will be spoiled. As long as those contacts are in my phone, those loved ones are still very much alive to me. And that’s the way I like it.

Who’s on your phone, who you refuse to delete? Why can’t you do it either? We’re not alone but it’s a tough club to belong to. Makes you realize it’s both a blessing and a curse to live a long life…and to have a cell phone.

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