The Cell Phone Contact List

Source here.

My wife keeps telling me,

Whenever she borrows my phone,

That I need to clean out

My contact list.

But I can't.

It's like cutting 

Some sort of cellular

Umbilical cord -

An essential connection I have

With people who are all but

Strangers at this point.

To delete them would be

To remove another straw

From the nest I build 

To comfort myself

That I exist and matter.

I know - I can find them on

Social media,

But that's so
Anti-social.

I recognize this is the mentality

Of a digital and relational

Pack rat,

But I grimace at the thought

Of despoiling the archaeological

Alphabetical sedimentation

Of a veritable life writ large

In a column of 10-digit sequences.

I scroll through it, remembering...

My student teaching mentor,

Several college project partners,

Bus drivers from field trips long past,

The bishop from my last congregation,

Some guy I don't even remember,

Younger siblings filed under an older sibling's name,

That club sponsor who quit,

Old landlords,

A young man I tutored, now in prison,

Dead relatives and friends,

Accidental and confusing duplicates,

The Muncie, IN Boy Scout office,

Coworkers fired for sexual harassment,

Neighbors long since moved,

Families who looked after me on my mission,

"Directory Assistance" whatever that means,

4 Robs,

Friends gone off the deep end,

Former professors,

People with wrong last names listed,

Nursing homes,

My wife's old boss,

And you.

There you were - 

Right between the old flame

And the new department head.

So I called you

To reminisce on the old days

And catch up.

But you just sat silent,

Perhaps wondering,

"Who is this guy?"

"Phil.
Phil Call,"
I explained.

"He doesn't live here anymore,"
You misunderstandingly pretended.

Trying to cover for this faux pas,
I responded,
"Well, if you see him,
Could you let him know I called?"

"Sure," you fakely reassured.
"Sure."