Superheroes’ phone numbers

After long negotiations—“why do you need it?”—Pa finally inherits the old phone.

Not just for anything.
For noble purposes:
She will write messages in proper Lithuanian.
She will regularly call her Grandmothers, because “maybe no one calls them that often?”
She’ll call us too, but only when she doesn’t know how to handle a situation on her own.
She will take photos.
Record videos.
And, very occasionally,
watch a short video.
So rarely that I wouldn’t even notice she’s doing it.

After a few years, waiting until at least her 8th birthday,
her round Kukulis-like eyes widen:
“I’m 8. And still not?”

Finally, in Pa’s hands, holding the old Dad’s phone like the greatest treasure,
she asks how to enter the numbers of relatives.

She pauses.
“Mom, I entered yours, Dad’s, both Grandmothers’, and both Grandfathers’. And also Daminukas’s.
Oh, and look—112 appeared,” she pokes at the screen.

Sitting her down, I explain why 112 comes first in the list.

Quietly.
“And where will you be?” she asks, worried.

I think I’ll always call you first, and then you call “the others you think need to be called.”

I hug her tight.
We are their “rescuers.”
Superheroes.
“Mini Bakemons” and “Commissioner Rexes.”
Solvers of any trouble.
Comforters.

Peace comes from knowing
that no matter what happens—
our arms are ready to hold them tight
and keep holding until all storms pass.

Wishing you a cozy Sunday,
V.