Dysphoria

Your name was Dysphoria. I had your phone number.

I called you "Dysie" in my head, but I can't remember whether I ever said it to you, directly.

Were you "Dysie" in my phone?

I knew your real name for a while, but it's not the name on your Facebook page.

Does it matter? Neither name gets any Google results.

I had your phone number.

We didn't use the phone much, but those were the days

(and sometimes, these still are the days)

when you shared your details gradually, a backup contact method, with quasi-strangers, just in case.

I had your phone number.

Maybe I still do? My contacts list is a graveyard full of names and numbers that meant something to me 10 or 20 years ago.

I don't look at my contacts list beyond the Favorites at the top.

Ever.

But I had your phone number.

You asked me once for money to get to New York.

Was it 50 bucks?

or 100?

I gave it to you. You didn't need to pay me back.

We never spoke of it again.

But I had your phone number.

The last text exchange was late at night.

We didn't talk much those days, but you clearly needed to reach out to someone.

Just someone.

You texted me a photo of your husband in a hospital bed. I think you told me later that he woke up.

I had your phone number.

But like so many, I watched for Facebook posts from a distance.

Facebook reminded me of your birthday. I probably wished you a Happy Birthday or two.

I think you were in Florida?

Facebook says you were in Florida.

You went radio silent.

Then came a pair of posts from someone who was concerned about you. Then, a comment saying nobody had heard from you in a month.

The last post,

aside from a few Happy Birthdays from people who didn't know you were gone,

was your sister asking if anyone

knew anything.

That post seems to be private now.

But I read it several times before it disappeared.

I had your phone number.

But I didn't call.

I knew you wouldn't answer. They said you wouldn't answer.

And had we ever been close enough for a phone call?

A real phone call?

Facebook still reminds me of your birthday

with a name

that reminds me of another name

that reminds me of another name

of a sad, edgy boy who was fearlessly authentic,

who at one time valued my friendship enough

to give me his phone number.

--

Dysie, I'll never know where you went, but I'll never forget you.