The last time that we spoke, we sat in a cafe and talked about his plans for the future. School, job, his depression. It was a conversation that we'd had several times before. All of us had goals that we struggle with, the unending pressure to reach the ideal image of ourselves at some point in our lives. He had been fighting an uphill battle to reach his goals for a long time.
We finished our meal, shared a hug, and left for home in Albuquerque. A few days later he threw himself off of the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge near Taos, New Mexico.
Grief is such a mysterious emotion to me. What is the evolutionary purpose of desiring something it's not possible to have back? And yet, we're all fated to feel that emptiness, where memory is a dagger, dealing pain, one slow slice at a time.
I've done what I could to cope. I've honored his memory through ritual, through sharing with others, planting a Japanese Maple, years of therapy, and yet still...
One morning I woke up, and he was in the kitchen, cooking, as if nothing had happened. I ran up to him, tears in my eyes, hugged him, welcomed him back from his trip, and we talked about life, philosophy, the latest books he'd been reading. Then I woke up, and realizing it was a dream, uncontrollably sobbed in the arms of my lover.
One morning I woke up, and he was in the kitchen, cooking, as if nothing had happened. I ran up to him, tears in my eyes, hugged him, welcomed him back from his trip, and we talked about life, philosophy, the latest books he'd been reading. Then I woke up, and realizing it was a dream, uncontrollably sobbed in the arms of my lover.
I miss him. Especially this time of year, around the anniversary of his death, and around our shared birthdays. He's getting harder to remember now. His touch, his smell, are stronger than the visual memory I have of him. It's hard to remember his voice. I miss the feeling, curled up next to him.
My old housemate and I talked about him. I asked how he copes with it. He said that he believes that he lives on in us, in the gift of the time that we had with him. He changed us. We changed him, making a mark in that chapter of our shared experience, even if, ultimately, it wasn't enough to change the end of his story.
In 2016, five years after his death, I drove out to the gorge. It wasn't my original intention to be there on the anniversary day, but that's how it landed. He would have appreciated the synchronicity of it.
On the high plateau, you could see long fields of scrub extending eastward to white capped mountains in the distance. Cutting through the plateau was a river, which after years, had slowly worn away the ground beneath and created the gorge deep below. Across the chasm was a bridge, and before the bridge was a lonely car park. My intent was to honor him, leave a wooden rose out on the span, say a few words. As I walked out, I thought I felt him then.
On the high plateau, you could see long fields of scrub extending eastward to white capped mountains in the distance. Cutting through the plateau was a river, which after years, had slowly worn away the ground beneath and created the gorge deep below. Across the chasm was a bridge, and before the bridge was a lonely car park. My intent was to honor him, leave a wooden rose out on the span, say a few words. As I walked out, I thought I felt him then.
I taped the rose to a strut in the center of the bridge. I found that didn't really have words. I still don't now. There's just the loss, the chasm, the long drop away to the ribbon of water below. I thought of him then. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, snow was falling, a gentle, windless dusting, all around me.
"There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning."
- Thornton Wilder
