Holding the Past in my Hand

I dreamt of an old mobile phone.
It was a style similar to what you would have seen
everywhere over a decade ago.
Maybe two.

It was large and hefty in my hand.
Glossy and black, more shell than screen, it felt
solid in my palm.

Tough. Hard to break.

In my dream, I didn’t flip it open, but I’m sure it
had a rubber keypad inside that you could
press with your fingers to type.

I could feel how it belonged to times no longer here.

Simpler times.

How I miss them, those echoing times, on some quiet nights.

January 10 – 11, 2026
Apx. 8:40 p.m.