For the first few months, I was irritated by red notifications which bubbled up over my phone app like a rash. But over the years, it’s become a source of comfort.
Sometimes I ask people about their first memories. Most involve Christmas, or a vacation at Myrtle Beach, or a tracheotomy victim blowing balloons out of his neck-hole.
But, oh, to live awhile as marrow
in someone else’s bones,
to breathe her breath upon the mirror held up to your life,