Obsolescence

 

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The address book itself is obsolete.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