We called each other every day, but neither of us picked up and our missed call notices were all we needed to know that the other still cared, longed for, desired—without bothersome messages, petty dustups, Eeyore downers, or ponderings later over what we wish we hadn’t said ... or had.

Those were the days when love was as easy as not answering the phone. Until one day a call wasn’t made; maybe a battery died, a phone was lost, or fell into the water, and the other didn’t return a missed call and then a daily dominoed to weekly, monthly, and finally only the occasional random 2 a.m. missed call—neither of us knowing where the other lived, or with whom—until even that flickered out.

Some will question how not receiving missed calls can be a loss, but they wouldn’t understand how the wonderings of what-where-and-what-ifs will consume one with Unknowing.

Some will say—just move on, leave behind what you once had, unlearn the reflex of checking Recent Calls every 90 seconds—there’s a 12-step for that, and stop staring at the tiny screen because everyone knows a watched phone never rings—better yet, discard that phone entirely(!) ... all meant to be helpful, no doubt, but that’s like fixing a hole in your pocket by having no pennies.

So, one day on a whim while rowing out to sea, I pull in the oars, pull out my phone, and hit redial one last time (thumb poised to End Call) but before the first ring, I hear the most beautiful most wondrous thing: “Is that you?”

Bio: Guy Biederman