The end

Sitting on the airport toilet, it occurred to me that the duty free Godiva display could count towards my remaining meal budget.

Next to the Godiva table, I discovered a Sees chocolate display, the spot where you must have bought them for me. It’s a good thing you made me open the box to try some that Sunday before you left because after you left, for the last time, that Thursday, I threw them away with everything else.

I find myself following in your footsteps, three months later, tracing your path through the Jet Blue terminal in San Francisco where you, wrapping up a week of contemplation, must have thought to yourself, “I guess I can expense a final gift for Melissa, something sweet before I end it all.”

I guess it’s really not that coincidental that I find myself following in your footsteps. You did solidify my loyalty for the airline; you did conjure extra intrigue with the city; you did make me want this job so badly, so I’d have an acceptable excuse to text you, a memo like: “Hey, if I’m moving across the country, do you want to know?” You’d be surprised: maybe you’d expected me to move a few hours down the coast but nothing this drastic. You’d be jolted, filled with a moment of nostalgic sadness, but you’d take a deep breath and suggest a final coffee before I leave. At the coffee, maybe you’d suggest we do it again if I’m ever in town again. And that’d be it for us.


A true goodbye

I take solace in the idea that even though it may feel like “the end”, it’s not the end because no one can ever really know when “the end” will truly be, when our final interaction will be, when the end will come. 

Our perception of relationships with clear ends and beginnings is a perception.

It’s not that we’re not over: it’s that life is fuzzy, our interpretations more finite.


You’re a person, I think

I look at photos of us often. Unabashedly, I don’t try to stop myself. I think it makes me happy, looking at us, holding each other, smiling in the sun, on top of mountains, surrounded by green.

It reminds me of your face and body. That you’re a person with a beard, and you exist. That you’re not just some concept, a thing everyone in my life is nervously watching me for signs for, expecting me to mourn.

You’re a person, I think. I think you’re real. Every so often I get lucky, and I catch a glimpse of you inside a photo. Your voice or laughter or mind or gait peaks through, and I remember who you are, at the other side of an emptied, blank text thread. Something swings out of my gut, reaching out to the sadness, trying to connect and place itself. 


He only posts on Snapchat when he’s lonely

He only posts on Snapchat when he’s lonely. When he’s trying to entertain himself, stay busy, find meaning, find a connection: a beautiful flower worth sharing, a baked food that filled three hours of Sunday, a bird in the park: craving a little more, a little more connection, filling time, but not filled out, searching for meaning, flipping the page in the calendar I gave him to reveal a new pic, he only posts on Snapchat when he’s lonely.