My friend Nick left me yesterday. I walked him to the top of the driveway, and he kissed me coolly on my cheek. I felt the impression for quite a long time afterward. I turned away from his taxi so I wouldn’t bother him with my tears, but I could still feel his eyes on me as if he knew that I had turned away for a reason. As I walked down my driveway, I looked over the beautiful rolling hills that had been given a haircut just the day before. I couldn’t help but imagine the hills as the curves of his face, etched into my mind as if they were wrinkles on my brain.
Once I came inside, I wept and went to his empty room. He had folded all of the sheets up and put them at the end of the bed. On the side table lay a book he had been reading. I picked it up off its back and discovered he had only read a few pages. A candle had been lit since the night before, and it was on its last flickers. I held the candle as if it were the last of him, and I let a tear slip to snuff out the flame.
It’s funny when someone leaves and you can still feel their presence. I slept all the rest of that day, knowing he was gone for at least a few months. Was it selfish of me to want him to stay, or should I have been less attached to someone who desires to understand me, who will one day be gone? I mourn the leaving as if it’s a loss of life.
That’s the thing about friends, they come and they go, always without exception. The influx of human connection on a day-to-day basis is so striking at some points that I often get lost in the absence of it. However, I must remember to pull myself back out of this sadness, as it is not productive to live in a state of fear. Mostly, I watch and learn from the people I pass on the streets, even when they’re speaking a language I have no understanding of, I still think about what their lives could possibly be like. My detachment from people at times allows me to become infatuated with how people get through the day. Do they reminisce or become lost in memories to avoid the present? What becomes of their thoughts as they roll by like never-ending waves on the ocean of soulfulness?
I also want to add to this a small writing exercise of poetry I did yesterday about remembrance and the importance it has in our lives. The smallest details can make the biggest memories, no matter how old you are or where you lay your head to rest.
I remember chirping cicadas waking me from summer naps in the sun.
I remember the overcooked and often burned eggs my Grandma cooked in her possum-infested kitchen.
I remember confronting my father about his smoking habits in a soon-to-close Mexican restaurant.
I remember the first time I realized Dad didn’t want to and never would tell me true stories.
I remember pulling a wasp’s stinger from my swollen knee.
I remember saying goodbye to a friend, being careful to turn away before the tears began to fall.
I remember my dying Grandma’s final words trickling through my ears, “It will be ok.”
I remember the look on her face as her soul finally left with her last breath.
I remember the isolation of staring out of my dirty boarding school window, just searching for a red cardinal.
I remember waking up to the sound of birds I never quite recall the name of.
I remember working at Jimmy John’s and attempting to match the southern accent of each customer.
I remember “accidentally” making a sandwich wrong just so my Grandma could “taste my work” when I brought it home.
I remember getting pooped on by a bird and mom telling me, “Don’t worry, it’s good luck.”
I remember dreaming of long white fields filled with folk music and my Grandma waiting in a red felt hat.
I remember the stories my Grandma used to tell me when I had growing pains in the middle of the night.
I remember the way my mom ran her fingers through my hair just before I left for school.
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