Pocket dial

I miss her face.

I knew I would. Even twenty years ago, when she was born, and none of us slept, and I went to work one day - got all the way up two flights of stairs - without noticing my footwear consisted of one open-toe mule and one closed-toed clog of very different colors. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d had them on the wrong feet. However, I was grateful that their heights were identical, mostly because I could come up with an excuse even though I suspected a noticeable limp might not have awoken me from my zombie-like stupor.

It’s funny to look back and think those were the days.

But I knew there would be a day when seeing her off to school would be more than just standing at the end of a driveway waiting for a yellow bus. It would mean packing up the important parts of her life and moving them hours away from home.

I had no idea that I would get used to the silence. I didn’t think I could go without seeing her even for a moment.

It wasn’t so much proof of life, as much as it was feeling like we were still in the same place, even if I was just staring at a map.

So, with her permission, I made a pact. I did the same with her brother.

If they would allow me to access their location, I would promise not to intrude beyond the knowledge of their longitudes and latitudes. I would give them all the space they needed if I could just locate them on a map (in case of emergency).

They call it the stalker app.

I swear, I try not to intrude. I asked to be allowed to track their every move with no small amount of humility and the promise of parental silence.

I have kept my word. I don’t let my thoughts coagulate over data points. I don’t bring it up in casual conversation, say, that I know she went to the hockey arena three nights in a row … or that he went to Stewart’s after school.

Just seeing their photos bobbing along a Google map getting closer to home can make my heart flood.

  

And, I know, that having the power of real-time tracking without context can also lead to surprises, suspicions, and awkward questions.

This might have been possible when I called up my daughter and saw her bubble bouncing near the edge of the ocean at a beach not far from her school.

She had mentioned it, though. She had called me the day before, sighing deeply and releasing the tension that had been building as she readied for a midterm exam. 

“Now that it’s over, I think I’m going to take a “wellness day” tomorrow and go to the beach with some friends.”

For a moment, I thought maybe I could accidentally call her …

Make like my pocket had dialed … just so I could hear the sound of waves behind her happy voice. But I resist.

What happens in Find My Phone stays in Find My Phone.