It Has to Be

Dear You,

Remember that night last summer? We were slightly drunk on high gravity beer – you more so than me, and we were sitting on my back stoop. You ordered pizza. It was Cheat Day and we were enjoying stepping away from the rigors of training and eating clean. You rolled a joint and donned my school sweatshirt, pushing the white fabric to the middle of your forearms. I never told you often enough how much I loved your hands, and forearms. They were exquisite; the fingers long and slender, the palms calloused in all the right places, your forearms sinewy and strong. I miss those forearms.

In between noshing on the pizza and smoking the joint, I told you a story about a past life; expanding on my fear of fire and high piles of wood. Now stoned, and still drunk, you leaned back, letting yourself fall onto the concrete step. It was the freest I’d ever seen you.

Months later, at the start of autumn, we were standing in my kitchen sipping the leftover stash of whiskey from your dead father. We made pecan pie and ate grocery story sushi. Bought tickets to the circus and dreamed of a future together. On my sofa, we fell asleep in the arms of one another.

The wheels were already in motion that night, but I didn’t know it then. I wish I would have been more open with you; I wish I’d told you things about my life that would have made you want to stay. Chasing dreams is a novel pursuit though, and I couldn’t hold you.

I saw you one more time before the crash. It wasn’t Saturday, but we ate like it was. Carob bites, dark chocolate, and that fine Murray’s Brother’s cheese. I stood like a pelican in the kitchen of your family home. Thought for sure we were only taking a pause, and that it wouldn’t be forever. I know I didn’t tell you I love you, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t even kiss you goodbye.

As I drove off to look for my own truth, I imagine you gathered the rest of your books, pages of words you’d carefully written, the long lines of words you’d strung together and committed to memory, and packed them along with your threadbare trousers into the hatchback of your Nissian. I picture you squinting into the sun, forgetting like usual that your Aviators were on top of your head. You probably touched the mezuzah one last time and kissed your fingers for fortune.

You didn’t see the truck as you turned off of your street onto Montgomery. I have to believe that. I have to believe the moment of impact was swift, that you had no time to register what was happening. I want to think you didn’t stop singing.

Always,

Me