When I was a kid, my uncles and aunts and my gran would call from far-away places and all action in the house would cease as we passed the phone from person to person, sometimes picking up a second extension that rendered the first person mouse-voiced for the remainder of the call. Time morphed from bulbous drops of homework hell to the fast lane where every minute cost thirty-five cents.

We couldn't get enough of that long-distance.

When I was a senior in high school, my boyfriend went off to college, taking a little part of my teenaged heart with him. After watching me mope around the house for a few weeks, my parents allowed me one hour a week to talk to him on the phone on their dime. I would sit in our basement in the most private possible room and talk on my sister's leftover princess phone. My boyfriend told me about his new fraternity and how different college was and how long it would be until he'd be home for a visit. I sat with a travel alarm clock between my feet, watching the second-hand sweep as we paused, listening to each other breathe, and each breath cost so much money. To be able to communicate for only one hour a week was torture. We sent letters, but they took so long to arrive the news was old and all there was to do was caress the ink and know the other person touched this piece of paper, too.

Somewhere in there, along came cell phones and affordable long-distance plans. The cheaper talking got, the less I seemed to do it. I was quick to email and slow to text. Now I communicate via words and pictures on all manner of social media with my friends, with the world, with people I've never met. I show them who I am in many ways, and that can be amazing and wonderful and new.

But usually, I just miss talking.