…IT WAS ONE of those great misfortunes of life, like scoops of ice cream falling from the cone onto the pavement. Your name being mispelt on a Starbucks coffee cup. Worse even, than death!
For the first time in it’s life, my phone shut down. Don’t get presumptious! I did everything I could. I’m a responsible person! I called the emergency services from a landline (I know right) and during my panic attack they managed to give me some advice, but they wouldn’t send anyone out. But my phone just died! Maybe you can bring it back to life? You know, *sob* with those electric paddle things?!
Weeping, I slouched on the wall, still gripping the absurd telephone, like it was the seventeen hundreds or something. I thought of the garden, and where I would bury my lost one, right next to Terry the hamster, in the original pristine cardboard box that it came in.
As in life, as in death.
Out of habit I found some glass for my fingers to swipe, the sight of the neighbours staring outside the front of the house couldn’t break me, my fingers swiping stereotypically on the living room window. How could I feel embarassed when I was going through the first steps of grieving?! I couldn’t right. Ok?
I considered writing an obituary. Creating a Facebook remembrance page. I questioned life itself. Why me right? Was this what some people would call an existential crisis? I didn’t have Google to ask…
Ten minutes later all was forgotten. In the throes of desolation and loss, I’d forgotten my tablet upstairs. Breathing eased. Blood pressure lowered. Everything was going to be ok!
I rushed upstairs, pushed my bedroom door open and saw it there on the bed, on the pillows, resting. I picked it up and pressed the button, expecting the screen to light up. Nothing. Impatient I clicked and clicked, waiting for the screen to greet me. Nothing. I plugged in the charger, now sweating with anxiety. Please, please, please! Minutes later nothing. Absolutely no sign of life.
I was a terrible father.