Delivered

I texted my son yesterday.
“Love You, Bud.”

There it sits, suspended, hovering, steeped in memories, emotions, and even a touch of anticipation. I go back and look at it periodically, as if I expect a response.

My son has been dead for almost four years, so it is highly unlikely that it will be answered. Ever…again.

He wasn’t really punctual about answering texts when he was still alive. He might get to it in a day or two, or not. But as is the case with his Millennial generation, you had a much greater chance of communicating via text than by phone. So, I learned years ago to text to better communicate with my children. You even have to text to make an “appointment” for a phone call, for some undisclosed reason.

I was born in 1965, right in the transition year between “Baby Boomers” and “Generation X”. I always like to say I possess an analog brain in a digital world. I did not grow up with technology; I just had to learn to use it enough to barely get by, and that still holds true today. Yet I seem to be falling farther and farther behind.

I honestly did not expect the text to go through. I expected it to come back as undeliverable, since his phone has been cut off for years. But I sent it out into the digital netherworlds nonetheless, feeling the longing to reach out, to reach up, to call out his name.

To my surprise, it said:
“Delivered.”

And I am still waiting.

For what, I’m not sure.

Maybe for some cosmic connection with him from a world I can’t fathom, nor understand. Yet.

I’m sure I’ve been blocked and deleted by some poor, unsuspecting soul who was randomly assigned my son’s old phone number. I guess I should have realized that past phone numbers are sacrosanct only to parents, siblings, and best friends who have lost their loved ones. His number will always remain in my phone contacts. That particular string of digits is sacred to me.

The contents of those little blue word bubbles point me toward a vibrant life well lived. They help me recall memories that keep him alive in my heart and mind, memories that evoke both tears and laughter.

To a corporate giant like AT&T, that random numerical sequence of digits is an untapped income stream to be replaced with a new paying customer as soon as possible. To that new customer, I apologize, kind of, but you might still hear from me from time to time. I promise I am not a, what is that word, a “phisher.” Did I use it right?

I am not trying to scam you for your personal information or start a relationship with a complete stranger. I can’t keep up with all my current friends and contacts in my Rolodex, so why would I randomly seek out new ones?

Analog mind, remember.

Sure, I get those open-ended texts all the time from numbers not in my contact list.

“Are we still meeting today?”
“How’s your day going?”
“Give me a call, it’s important.”

I mostly ignore them. Sometimes I block them if they get too repetitive. Why would someone reach out to a completely random number? What do they hope to achieve by engaging a stranger in a text conversation? Do they think I will accidentally key in my bank account information during a text stream? Maybe there are simply a lot of lonely people out there, yearning for connection.

But I’ve realized, of late, that texting can be a love language.

My father-in-law, who is 85, sends me a text nearly every morning and, recently, many evenings as well. They are short and sweet.

Wednesday morning, for example:
“Good morning loves I hope you slept well and are having a good day be safe love you very much.”

My Microsoft Word program is cross with me (yes, I reluctantly gave up my typewriter some thirty years ago), pointing out, with high-school-English-teacher-like red corrections, the faulty punctuation and run-on sentences, but I am sharing the text with you verbatim.

He does not just text me but also every one of his children and grandchildren, close to a dozen texts every morning. When we were back at their home in Arkansas for Thanksgiving this year, I watched him, out of the corner of my eye, tap out these love messages with his morning coffee, one at a time.

No group text, no voice assistance, just:

Tap, tap, tap, plucking forcefully with his right pointer finger, pause, squint, hold up Sherlock Holmes’s vintage magnifying glass, which he carries in his robe pocket, to check the efficacy of the first three words, tap, tap, tap, an under-the-breath mutter of frustration, delete, delete, backspace, backspace, tap, tap, up comes the magnifying glass again to verify, tap, tap, pause, and then, with a final finger flourish, SEND.

And then on to the next recipient, TIMES twelve.

This morning routine, I’m sure, takes him every bit of an hour. I get busy and often don’t respond for several days, just like my son. Yet they keep coming, and though the message is repetitive and succinct, I have come to see what a gift this is.

I/we, the entire family, are being thought of, touched, and prayed for every morning! That is his love language. It hits hard when you pause to think about it.

I am determined to get better at responding with a simple “I love you” or “Thank you, have a great day.”

So if you happen to get a random text from an unfamiliar number that says:
“Love you, Bud.”

Don’t delete it, simply respond with:
“Love you too, Dad.”

That would make my day.

_____________________________

Tab Taber is a Gold-Star Dad–father of SSG George L. Taber V, a Green Beret Medical Sergeant from 7th SFG who died during a violent storm on Mt. Yonah while in the Mountain phase of Ranger School in August 2022. Tab journals to process his grief and to recollect memories of his son. Occasionally he shares his written thoughts with The Havok Journal and on Instagram @gltiv. He retired from the Military (8 years Marines;15 years Army) in 2014 and now resides in NE Florida where he runs a 4th generation wholesale plant nursery. He can be reached at tabtaber7@gmail.com.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.