In Memory of a Companion

My car was broken into again. That’s two times in ten days. No smashed windows, no alarm—just the quiet violation of someone rummaging through my things while the world slept.

The first time, they left everything in disarray but didn’t take anything—probably because there wasn’t anything of value to take. This time, they upped the ante. Drained the battery somehow, so I had to call for a tow. And this time, they left me a gift: a pile of break-in tools, a handful of keys, and a burnt glass pipe—clear evidence of drug use.

One of the keys belongs to a mailbox right here on the property.

Now, maybe that mailbox key belonged to another victim—someone who, like me, was just unlucky. But another thought lingers in the back of my mind: Have I found the perpetrator? Did they break into my car… and unknowingly leave behind a trail that leads right back to them?

I filed a police report, more for the paper trail than out of any expectation. I’ve played this game before. The complex says there’s security at night, but I’ve yet to see a soul. Not even a flashlight beam in the dark.

And here’s the thing—this is the part that stings a little deeper: I want to believe these people are my neighbors. I want Nomad Santa to say that. But I’m struggling.

Part of me wants to shake them by the shoulders and shout, “Can’t you find something better to do with your life?” Another part of me thinks of all the scam calls, the phishing emails, the fake tech support lines targeting seniors (like me). There’s this rising tide of desperation masquerading as hustle.

“Get a job,” people say. But what if your mind is swimming in chemicals? What if your past has anchored you to the bottom? What if your “Sitz im Leben”—your place in life—is a storm-damaged raft drifting with no land in sight?

Homelessness. Addiction. Mental illness. It’s a mess we haven’t figured out yet. A wicked, tangled problem.

And I—Nomad Santa—sit here with a handful of someone else’s keys, wondering what door they no longer open.

I’m angry. But I’m also sad. And maybe a little tired.

But I’m not giving up. Not on my neighbors. Not yet.

This is Nomad Santa, reminding you: In this small world, we’re all neighbors.

📱 “In Memory of a Companion”
A Nomad Santa Reflection

Some say it was a freak gust of wind.
Others blame the umbrella. I blame neither.
But on a breezy Monday in Washington, D.C., a rogue deck umbrella took flight and struck me—not hard—but just hard enough to knock the phone right out of my hand.

My Samsung S23 soared.
For a moment, it looked like it, too, had dreams of freedom.
It landed screen-first on the pavement, a heroic final act of defiance.

At first, I thought it had survived.
A couple of cracks. A flicker of hope.
But like many things that carry us through our days, it faded fast once the damage set in. By nightfall, the screen was streaked with yellow and green, unresponsive and ghosting images from memory.

The mission continued—I was in the middle of a courier run—but the phone was done.
And so, with a mixture of mourning and mockery, I declared what was already obvious:

The phone had passed.
Funeral arrangements pending.

Eulogy for a Digital Companion

You were more than a phone.
You were a travel partner, navigator, translator, flashlight, jukebox, compass, and confidante.
You knew my passwords, my playlists, and my sleep schedule.
You were the first to greet me in the morning, and the last to go dark at night.

You saw me through airport layovers, language barriers, and late-night cravings.
You held memories—photos, messages, voice notes.
You never asked for much. Just a charge.
And maybe the occasional update I kept postponing.

Now you are gone.
And I find myself… unmoored, but oddly free.

Because when the phone went silent, the world around me didn’t.
The birds still sang.
The tram still ran.
People still smiled—though I had to look up to notice.

The Lesson in the Loss

Sometimes, we don’t realize how tethered we are until the cord snaps.
Losing the phone reminded me: I’m still capable of navigating without it.
Still able to find my way, strike up a conversation, ask for directions, trust my gut.

That little pocket-sized screen did so much.
But it didn’t hold the whole world.
And it didn’t stop me from living in it.

So today, I raise an invisible glass to my dearly departed device.
You served me well.
May your data rest in peace—backed up, restored, and remembered.

This is Nomad Santa, reminding you:
In this small world, we’re all neighbors.