Our camera broke. These are the things I will always remember.
Somewhere along the Oregon Coast, I realized that I would never see you again. As Otis’s voice came through the car stereo, I focused on the horizon through tear-swollen eyes thinking of a way to both quickly end the drive home and somehow make it last forever. If we never pull up to my house, then it will never be tomorrow. If it’s never tomorrow, then we will always have one more night.
You left your white hat on the floor in my bedroom, and if there was one piece of clothing that I would’ve wished you left behind, this was it. It’s no longer white, but more of a light gray, collecting bits of the atmosphere from all of its worldly travels. I spend hours trying to figure out which dust is ours. This speck from the high plains of Washington, this mark from the banks of the riverbed, this dent from tree climbing in the forest. I’ve seen more of my state in the past month than I normally do in a year.
We make sandwiches in the tall grass. You use your pocket knife to slice the bread we bought at the farmer’s market while I pour wine into salvaged jars. Blackberry juice drips down my chin and I don’t need to look up to feel you smiling at my mess. I rest my leg across your thigh and we enjoy our lunch intertwined like this. Our meals take hours to finish.
Walking anywhere with you takes forever. You always stop to taste a berry or smell a flower, feel an herb or pick a leaf. You smell like sweet pastries. On sun-drenched Sunday mornings, my room smells like a bakery. Every meal with you is a picnic. Every day is a weekend. I never feel guilty about sleeping in.
I never knew that weather reports could be love letters or that you could have a conversation in soul songs. I’ve never liked my front porch more than when I saw you reading a book on its lonely white chair. No one ever sat on the chair like that and now I can’t sit there any other way.
I fell in love with my city because of you.
I’m too afraid to change anything that might hold an essence of you. These are the sheets that we last slept in. This is the last bit of salad that we never got to finish. This is the pen that you used to write me goodbye. But sheets will get dirty and food will rot and pens will run out of ink. I cannot stop time no matter how badly I want to. Every day that passes makes us more of a memory.
I miss you more than I ever could have anticipated. I cry about it more than I am willing to admit. But you are worth every second of heartache and lost photos. I had forgotten what it’s like to miss someone so much it hurts. At least I’ve got my new white hat. I’ve been wearing it for a week now.