So this is the part where I remember your smile under the street lamp on the beach. The cool breeze as you carried me. The quiet shush you gave me and laughing as we realized the people next to us were doing the same. I yern for just a little more contact… This is a fantasy I like but I crave your skin again.
One of my only regrets is that I don’t remember the day we met. I never could remember, no matter how hard I try.
What joy you must have felt holding the 6 pound bundle of potential. You could only hope, only dream that one day would be better than the life you had been given. You never could have known.
What joy you must have felt watching that 6 pound bundle grow into a toddler. Counting to 100 by 3, reading by 4. Reading - something you never had been able to do. There that bundle was, reading to you. That bundle would never outgrow it. It would read you your letters, your emails, your trade magazines.
What joy you must have felt watching that bundle grow wings and fly off to new places. DC, West Virginia, college, Connecticut. You never could have dreamed life would treat your bundle so well. Beautiful, intelligent, and driven to a fault. You could have never guessed your bundle would raise so far above the small, industrial town it came from.
What joy you must have felt leaving your bundle in a small museum. What joy you must have felt from every phone call, every Skype call. What joy you must have felt.
I only have two regrets. I never called you enough. I can’t remember the day we met. What joy must have been coursing through your veins. I have but this picture as a memory of that day.
It’s a Wednesday, just after you fly to where you are going. You say yes, I want to see you, too. You think it’ll be calming to sit on the beach and see him again.
It’s a Thursday, just after he wakes you up. You can’t help but to be passive-aggressive. You spent the last eight months loathing that you can’t have him, and you had him for a minute and he’s quickly slipping through your fingers.
It’s a Friday, just after you see your new home. You think he might like it, too. But then your boyfriend texts you.
It’s a Saturday, and he apologizes for missing your presentation. You say you knew he wouldn’t go anyway.
It’s a Sunday, just before you fly to where you came from. You say yes, you can stop by brunch. But you didn’t expect to hear that he wanted to try to be with you. You just ask if he’s sure, and he just repeats that he is. How do you know what to say?
I’m just one day away from going to Connecticut. I’m scared. I wish you could pep talk me. My first professional presentation, and I get to see where I’ll be living this summer. I really wish you could see this museum and drop me off this summer. Aunt Debbie and mom really just won’t be the same. Justin might get to go, though. I know how excited you got when we did something with him.
I feel really bad sometimes because I always look down on people who try to empathize with me by talking about their loved one who died, but knew they were going to die. Like someone whose parent had cancer.
I think, they had their time to grieve before. They knew things were going to change. Yeah, it sucks that they’re gone, but you had time to prepare your life so that you could move on without them. You had your time to say goodbye, and you knew it was coming.
I didn’t get the luxury of that. I talked to my dad Monday night, and didn’t hear from anyone in my family until Thursday afternoon, and Thursday night I was holding my comatose father’s hand in a ICU room.