I put down my phone. I wonder how many stories begin like this. “I put down my phone.” A lot, I’d imagine. But my story starts when I picked up a phone.
When my dad died, I got his phone. A fancy iPhone as well.
We would be out for dinner – me, my two brothers, and my dad. Soccer would usually dictate where we ate, so I grew used to pub food. “Dad, let’s go somewhere where we can talk. Sure, she’s no interest in the football,” my eldest brother said, nodding at me.
We went in to the city. I think it was Italian food and I got pasta. We were talking. “The match is four-two,” my dad would say, checking the score on his phone.
He would bring me home from music class on Thursdays. We would always stop at a newsagent on the way. “What ice cream do you want?” he would ask me every week. “I don’t like ice cream,” I would always answer.
My dad wasn’t on Facebook, but he had the app. When he took part in the ice bucket challenge, he asked me to upload it to my profile, even though I wouldn’t be able to tag him in it, and none of his friends would see it. Maybe some of my cousins would see it. Someone would see it.
We were out for dinner again. “Will you have the beef?” “Dad, she’s vegetarian.” “Since when?” “Almost ten years now.”
When my dad died, I got his phone. A fancy iPhone as well. I uploaded a poem from his fancy iPhone. It got over 100 likes. But that wasn’t why I did it.
I went through the messages. Mostly between him and his brothers, my uncles. Exam results, pictures of me, updates of my love life. He knew it all. And I didn’t realise until I got his fancy iPhone.
– What will she have 4 dinner?x
– No meat. She’s vegetarian x
He knew it all.