Though currently dead himself, George Carlin had this bit about when it was appropriate to remove a dead person's entry from your address book. Right after the death might be sensible (really, you're never going to call it again), but also heartless and dismissive of the person's memory. But to never do so is to be unrealistic, forever stuck in the denial stage of grief.

He conveys the thought more humorously than I can (or have here). We all have our preferred mediums. His is stand-up, mine: a blog.

The act of deleting a number from my phone is momentary, deliberate. "Do you really want to delete this contact?", my phone asks. The big caution-red "delete" button imparts the permanency of its pressing.

―

Four years ago I packed my car full of belongings and headed west. San Francisco feels a world away from rural Wisconsin. Not just culturally. Geographically.

The distance isn't terrible. This modern world has phones, instant messages, emails, even video chats. But people still fly. And I still do, back home, to what seem like marathon visiting sessions. Hours in the car to connect the towns where my relatives live.

When saying goodbyes and heading out doors, there was always a cold little voice: This could be the last visit. Only the Fates really knew. I worried each time.

The goodbyes have generally been followed with hellos on later visits. But early this year, a goodbye went unpaired. Paging through names in my phone, my grandma's name sticks out when happening through the Gs. In the summers, my brothers and I spent weeks at a time at her house in Reedsburg.

A few nights ago, I had a bad dream. I was rushing to get home before she died. It left me shaken. I'd been through my grieving for months. It had not been on my mind. Sometimes your mind wanders down paths you've not been down lately.

I hadn't been watching the calendar, but it was the six month anniversary of her death in February.

―

Adam's grandmother died close to when mine did. He told a bittersweet anecdote about her. I didn't write anything. Couldn't really bring myself to. I flew home, went to the funeral, and came back. The following week I left the country on vacation.

George Carlin said he kept his dead friends' numbers for six weeks. I'm at six months. The number, I'm sure, has been disconnected or reassigned. I think I'll leave it for now.