You were a good little phone, my fourth one. I had you only about a year after I lost number three.
You were a sleek and shiny flip-top. Perhaps because you were sleek and smooth, I dropped you often. Once, not long after I’d gotten you, I dropped you in the street. You rolled under a parked car, and your guts fell out. I patched you up, and you carried on, your flip-top hanging on by a single hinge.
You were my first camera phone, and on you, I learned to text. You didn’t have a keyboard and texting took a long time, but you came in handy on so many occasions.
And then, one fateful day last week, I went to a meeting and slipped you into my pocket because I was expecting a call. You were so small, so light, I forgot you were there.
The next day, I did a load of laundry. Normal wash, “eco” temperature, high spin. Detergent. No fabric softener. I had no idea you were still in the pocket of my shorts, little phone, until my husband found your body in the washing machine.
We immediately implemented emergency first aid and put you in a container of rice, but we thought it was hopeless, so I ordered my first smart phone.
Amazingly, you survived.
But it’s time for you to retire. You have served me well. Be proud of your service.
Farewell, little phone.