(100 word memoir)
I spent my twenties texting. And status updating.
“Why can’t you just be here?” my mother always asked at dinner.
“I might miss something,” the top of my head responded.
One summer night, the girls hosted a slumber party and my phone got lost among half-eaten cookie dough and boxed merlot. Its ring unheard over the sound of intimate confessions and 80s synthesizers. The next morning, twelve missed calls from my brother greeted my wine and giggle hangover.
“Who died?” I asked.
“Mom,” he said.
Now, in my thirties, I’m rarely on my phone. And no one has died.