I thought of you in July passing the food carts we went to after a day at the museum, made a note on my phone on the 20th at 12:10 p.m.
then again at 1:35, the second time I saw Blue Jay Walker, this time in Washington Square.
I saw peach Canada Dry on the first day of August at 12:53,
and a memory came up on my phone at 6:06, a video of you singing in your old car, in a shirt I bought you, eating an ice cream cone.
I watched it three times before I had to stop, had to stop the tears before they came;
you drove overnight from Virginia to see me when I recorded that. I forgot, but I didn't need the reminder now.
Five days later, I saw something about meteors. You were so proud of the rock you found and cast in resin.
I logged the reminders and timestamps for some of the things that brought you back to the forefront of my mind,
kept tallies that quickly became unmanageable.
I couldn't keep up. It happens too often.
A few days ago, I tried a drink you would have loved, wanted to ask if you've had it yet,
but I resisted the urge and opened my notes again,
filling it slowly with messages to you that I can't send.
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Comments (3)
This is so sad and beautifully put
well done
I have been there. I used to write emails to them that never made it out of the drafts. Those reminders still stick around, but they won't feel so loud as you begin to heal!