Backward

His phone was heavy, cream plastic, made

to last. "You've never used one," he said,

not a question. No. I grew up

pressing buttons, light-up promises. I looked up

at him, then at the dial. Seven.

It spun back, mechanical, uneven,

patient in a way I wasn't, the click

coming back to me, specific.

Someone far away was receiving

this the old way, believing

that patience and certainty meant

connection. The number wasn't sent—

I was only halfway through.

Five. The dial clicked. I knew

nothing about what I was calling,

who I was calling, the falling

back through decades to a time

I never lived but somehow was mine.

I took my finger out. The number

stayed half-complete, a slumber

between then and now,

between the old way and how

we talk now, fast, instant,

careless. This was different.