Bullet #1

314-428-5462. My Grandma's phone number.

For as long as I've been alive (and that's a shamefully long time), it's been the same number. The same house. The same voice on the other end of the line. Even now, the same voice, on an answering machine message. The same message that I've called to listen to entirely too many times since she died. The same chipper voice that would tell me, "Well, I don't know nothin' else," at the end of every phone conversation.

Pretty soon, though, in the next few days, (or hours, for all I know), I won't be able to call 314-428-5462. The phone is going to be shut off, and while it shouldn't hurt the way it does, it does. It isn't as if she's going to be able to call me up. It isn't as if I'm going to be able to call her. It isn't as if I'm ever going to see her number pop up on my caller-ID again, and hear "Stardust" as her ringtone, and yet, there is something about turning her phone off that feels like someone is slamming my fingers in a car door.

Damnit, I hate this.