The dead live in my phone. Names of the passed, numbers of the gone. Like GS, my old tennis partner, as calm as a spring morning, forgiver of my late arrivals, pourer of generous whiskies, serve as smooth as his guitar licks, steadfast friend on my grimmest days. 

He died a while ago, so did PR, a writer whose stories flowed like an elegantly winding street taking you some place new. I feel that something ends if I delete their numbers, as if I’m erasing them completely. It sounds irrational, but perhaps it’s why you keep your late grandmother’s pen which doesn’t work. Everyone finds different ways to keep the dead alive.