My Anchor

My wife of forty-five years died and in my grief I decided carrying her cell phone kept her alive. I think I reread the hundreds of my emails and her responses a couple dozen times. It was my small anchor after having lost the big one that kept me tethered to life. A small recompense, but a useful one.

Last year I reached for it and it wasn't there. I was very upset for a short time, but realized it wasn't a necessity any more. It had helped me survive the tsunami of despair that had flooded me and dissipated so slowly I hadn't realized it.

I'd sold my business and retired, but I kept to myself. I didn't date or travel, I did hobbies that kept my mind occupied without the necessity of people and my kids beat me up severely about that. "Get off your dead ass and talk to other people!" One grand daughter put it as, "For Christ's sake grandpa, get a fricking girlfriend!" But I didn't.

Last month my phone rang and when I saw the number it was my wife's phone. My answer was an apprehensive "Hello?"

The response was in a female voice, "Hi, Ian?"

"Yes! Where did you find that phone!"

"On the street. I've had it for a year and just now figured out how to access it for a contact and found her emails. They are beautiful."

"Thank you. What now? I don't need it any more."

"I'd like to meet the man who wrote all those loving emails. Do you know Arturo’s Steaks?”

“Yes, been a few times. Why?”

If you decided to drive there tomorrow at 7pm there will be a woman, without transportation I might add, waiting to meet and return a found item. I'll buy."

"That's not necessary, I really ..."

"But I want to meet you."

I agreed and when we met I realized my grand daughter got it right.