I always keep them separate. One in the left, the other in the right and they are not allowed to swap. They have their homes and if they are anywhere other than the right or the left pocket then they are lost.
In my left is my past. California, Colorado, Ohio, New Orleans, Ireland, and St. Louis are all there. Family is in there—people I should call more often than I do. Lovers are in there, not many of them and those are numbers seldom punched now, but they sit there and stir me when I scroll past them. There are a handful of names that have meaning to them in my left pocket. The people who would be on the “favorites” list if I ever used it. Old bosses and references are in there too because, you know, I might need them later. Something my right pocket could interested in.
Then there are names and numbers that probably shouldn’t be there and they’re given away by not having a last name. The one namers are ghosts. You were a pretty face that night and I had to, had to, have your number. Or maybe you insisted on giving it to me. Maybe if I look at your one name long enough I can remember that party or that kiss or that joke and remember the urgency that brought you into my left pocket. I don’t know though. I can’t ever really remember.
Megan, Megan, Megan. Who are you? How did you come to be here? Above and below you are people. People that matter. People that make me laugh and smile, but you—who are you? And Aren too. What made you special? How many of you ghosts are in here? And why are you still here? I should know these things, I suppose. I put you there after all. And I can take you out just as easily, easier even. But I haven’t yet, you’re still here. I can’t delete you. You’ve made it this far, why should today be your day to disappear into the void, falling out of my left pocket and gone forever? You didn’t do anything to deserve it today. You haven’t done anything so I guess you can stay. I must like having ghosts in the phone, a comforting haunting in my left pocket.
While the left pocket carries the weight of the past the right is harder and colder. There is no nostalgia among the grooves and ridges and points in the right pocket. The metallic song that sings from my keys doesn’t remind me anyone or anywhere. There are no foggy memories of a party or washed out remembrances of job that really wasn’t that bad. Even the little Spanish bull that dangles among the starters and openers is metal and cold and sings the same song—its attempts to remind me drowned out and indistinguishable. There are no ghosts in the right pocket. It is firm and finite and functional. Key/keyhole. Door open/door closed. Home/not home. There are no mysteries in the right pocket.
Recently though, while the ghosts mingle with lovers and new friends in the left pocket, the right pocket has gotten lighter. Keys circle around the ring and are gone. While I can choose to keep my ghosts of the left pocket, there is no comfort once a key is gone. The song of the remaining keys is the same as it was before, metallic and cold. But I’m starting to notice it now. First one key, then another have circled the ring and more will soon make the trip. With each ending I lose a key. First work, then school, and next the apartment. Soon the only key left will the one with the gnarled plastic head that makes my car come to life. As the key count dwindles in the right the ghost population rises in the left.
I always keep them separate but the occupants of my right and left pocket live together now. Swapping significance and meaning from one hip to the other. The distance between them is the same. The distance between them is different. They have their homes, but I can't say the same.
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