What my phone knows about love and loss

Every July 21, my Instagram memories remind me of the first time my nephew Gavin and I truly bonded.

- By DAWN SOLANO

Our Gavin, a pandemic baby, was a shy little boy, the kind who needed time and gentle patience. To this day, he takes a little longer to warm up to anyone. But during this one short family trip, I finally got him to sit next to me for a couple of funny pictures. I remember thinking I had to move quickly; he might run off any second. I didn't expect him to stay, but he did.

That was four years ago.

Now, his mother rings me every time Gavin wants to hear another one of my crazy bedtime stories about a young superhero named 'Gavin,' of course, who has an elephant and a lion for sidekicks.

He still doesn't like crowds. Still hides behind his nanay and tatay when strangers come. But with me, he listens. With me, he laughs.

Every year, when that blurry photo resurfaces on my phone, grainy, two faces squished together in a rare moment of stillness. It reminds me of how relationships bloom quietly. Not with fanfare, but with presence. My phone remembers the exact date even when I forget.

Sometimes, I think my devices know more than I do. Or at least, they know what to return to me when I'm too busy and tired, or too far from who I was when I took the picture.

BUT NOT ALL MY MEMORIES LIVE IN THE CAMERA ROLL. SOME LIVE IN PLAYLISTS.

I was in college when one of my closest friends made me a Spotify playlist. I don't remember how the idea came up, but I remember the concept. She knew I was obsessed with My Hero Academia, particularly Aizawa, the perpetually exhausted teacher who graded papers with bloodshot eyes and held more heart than he let on.

So, she curated a playlist just for me. The theme? Me and Aizawa pulling an all-nighter together. I brew us coffee in the middle of the night. He sits across from me, hunched over a pile of student essays. I read a book under warm lamplight.