Obsolescence
I never
think of you anymore.
Never.
Except that
time I saw that guy whose head looked just like yours.
From the
back.
It wasn’t
you, of course.
I made sure.
Mostly,
though, I never think of you.
But recently
my address book took me by surprise.
The address
book itself is obsolete.
Taken,
inherited, from a drawer of treasures.
Brand new,
empty, waiting.
She’d hoped
it would become her neatly organized repository of communication information.
She’d take
all those envelopes, small slips of scribbled paper and the tattered, worn-out,
crossed-through little book she’d used forever and replace it.
Except she
didn’t.
It became
mine at the turn of the millennium.
I filled it
with family, friends, memories.
I’ve got
pages of ex-in-laws, family, and old friends who’ve moved. And moved. And
moved.
I kept track
of kids’ birthdays.
My book
remembers the time when certain people were still married.
And you.
My address
book still remembers you.
It’s
obsolete, of course.
I have all
this information in my phone now.
My phone
keeps each person separately, doesn’t even know who’s married.
My phone has
info on everyone I communicate with.
I keep it
current.
Sometimes I
delete people.
I deleted
you.
I never
deleted people from my address book; old addresses get crossed through and new
ones added.
Sometimes an
arrow leads to a new page.
While
searching through my address book as I updated my holiday card list, I turned
from F to G and there you were.
I could
delete you by ripping out your page, I suppose.
But then
what of the Gieses, the Gossages, the Greens?
I’d have to
rewrite them and I’d lose their history.
I never rip
out pages.
And
you.
Have you
moved?
I don’t
know.
Did you find
someone to grow old with?
Again, I don’t
know.
Are you
happy?
I don’t
know.
So there you
remain, with the other Gs, uncrossed through.
Memories of
the whole affair haunting me as I check the book to see if I’ve forgotten
anyone.
And remember
I do.
Do you?
Remember the
Grand Canyon?
You held my
hand, we took that boat…the ravens wanted to share our lunch.
And the
phone calls…remember?
It all
started out innocently enough but then it turned into late night musings.
It was all
totally inappropriate, of course.
We were both
committed to others.
Were we
cheating?
We weren’t.
And then we
were.
And then we
weren’t.
We were
supposed to meet at the bridge by the fountains, remember?
And then we
didn’t speak.
You thought
I wanted more.
I knew I
needed something else.
It’s all
different now.
I’ve moved.
Twice.
Broken up,
lived alone, gotten married.
I’m happy.
I never even
think of you.
pkw 2018
