In the magenta storage ottoman I rest my feet on while writing sentimental sap like this, there's an old red flip phone buried under tangled cords and a set of speakers I keep telling myself I'll eventually find a use for. I haven't tossed it into one of those "phones for soldiers" cardboard boxes yet because I've been meaning to get a single video off of it: a video of a preteen me pestering my late dad at the Pokemon Regional TCG Championships.
"What's it like being here?" I ask in my best news reporter voice. "The people want to know! They really, really want to know!"
"Weird," he replies. I shove the camera closer to his face and the conversation devolves into babbling.
