I go to shoot one back but the kissy face is missing from the frequently-used lineup of emojis in my phone. There are plenty of other faces, the smiley, the tongue-sticking-out, three kinds of frownies. There's the cupcake, the rainbow, and a torso wearing some sort of service cap for some reason. And then I realize something else is missing. The strings of animals I used to always have in there. The ant, spider, snake, snail. The pig, camel, bird, bird, bird. All the fish.
Those were Steve emojis. Often when I texted him some question, if his answer was in the affirmative, he would respond with a line of them: ladybug, fish, other fish, crab, heart, other-colored heart, flamingo. No words, just tiny images running in a rainbow of exuberance across my screen.
I had gotten in the habit of talking to Steve in strings of emojis, mirroring his Steveness back at him. Knowing his interests, I often had fish swimming across my text fields. Sharks and dolphins. Tiny surfing men. Fish and surfers meant yes, meant happy.
After I find the kissy face and respond to my mom, I pop over to my text thread with Steve. I look at the last message I ever sent him, that he likely never saw. Think about sending a fish out into the void. Click my phone off.
