This is a letter I wrote to someone very dear to me, who will never see it, and never read it, but that I hope somehow my words will reach him, and he’ll be lifted up with the light of my words. I hope that this sentiment is something that everyone dealing with loss can relate to, and can help those who are grieving find a way to move through it.
Last night I felt the reality of your absence as I laid in bed trying to fall asleep, and I remembered the last night you shared this space with me. I had a nightmare you were killed in a car wreck, and when I awoke, crying, I cried harder because I realized you were here with me – and I knew it would be the last time. But for awhile, I clung to you, letting the emotion wash over me, letting the tears soak my cheeks and your chest and the fake-fur blanket, trying to breathe through the combined grief and ecstasy.
Last night, I could feel all those emotions rushing over me again as my fingers gripped the blankets where you had slept, as I ran my palms over the air where your chest had been, as I gazed into the spot where, days or hours before, your eyes had glittered back at me.
In the light of this warm, almost-summer morning, it is easier to forget some of that pounding grief. It is easier to choke back the tears with a cup of hot coffee and listen to the buzz of my neighbor’s air conditioner unit outside.
But last night, I couldn’t sleep. I laid awake, alternately crying and trying to feel you next to me – because if what String Theorists say is true, that time is a loaf of bread and not a line from point A to point B, then you’re still here with me. You’re still here next to me. You’re still sitting on the edge of my bed, sucking on a ginger chew candy as you try to calm your stomach ache; you’re still laying stretched out in my bed, lit by the flood of light from my closet, as we talked about politics and the kids laid next to you, drawing on small sheets of paper.
Somewhere in time, right now, we’re still walking through that field of buckwheat, talking about that movie you just saw with that guy who couldn’t stop running. We’re still sitting next to each other in the park under that big tree with the wrinkled roots, drawing odd looks from people who think we’re just two gay boys in love.
If time is a loaf of bread, I’m still laying by your side, half-asleep, in the study room at the library, and we’re still standing in the parking lot right now, looking up at the stars after that trip to Berkeley.
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