My Address Book

The time-worn log on the table in my front hall may not be as convenient as a smartphone, but its history can’t be deleted.

- Patricia Gould

A YEAR OR SO AGO, while my granddaughter was visiting, I asked if she had her brother’s new address. She scrolled through her phone and I marvelled again at the convenience of technology. A phone, not an address book? While I’m not entirely techno-illiterate—I type, after all, on a laptop—I find it hard to grasp the changes that happen so quickly.

“Here, Gran,” said Carly when she found the address. “I’ll write it down for you.”

“Will you put it in my book?” I asked, pointing her to the phone table in the hall.

Carly picked up the well-worn address book and looked inside, a curious expression on her face. “There’s hardly any room left to write numbers,” she said with a laugh as she wrote what I needed in the margin. “And it’s full of names you’ve scratched out.”

“Well, dear, those are people who’ve passed on,” I explained.

“Dead?” said Carly.

“Dead,” I echoed. “I can’t press ‘delete,’ so I just scratch out the names.”

“Oh,” she said, looking a little horrified. “That’s so sad.”

AFTER CARLY LEFT, I picked up my address book and took it into the living room with a cup of tea.