Who Lives In Your Phone?

When I talk to about my brother in a conversation with anyone, I have to hold my phone in my hand.

Not when I talk to him, but when I talk about him.

I say things like, “And then my brother told me…” or “My brother is so good at…” or “My brother posted a quote about…” and I hold my phone in my hand, occasionally tapping the screen for emphasis. It’s like I’m gesturing to him, this guy here.

He’s the guy who lives in my phone.

I can call him if I need to, though that’s somehow only necessary a few times a year. Instead, we text and send photos, videos, quotes, and links to one another, and our hearts pulse on cellular waves. As far as I’m concerned, from 1200 miles away, my brother lives in my phone.

The thing is, my brother is like the sun. Always there, a central part of my world, always shining light and life. But our friendship is so concentrated, so potent, that it’s almost too painful to look right at it. I love him so much it makes my heart hurt.

It’s the reason I won’t apologize for having my phone in hand’s reach all the time. Because it’s like sunshine in my pocket.