I miss him very much. In a raw way that lays cruelly dormant and surfaces later without warning just to remind me I can’t stray too far from the hurt.
Writing seems again so novel. It used to be my bread and butter and now I remember why. It’s healthy but selfish in all the best ways. Whither all the old journals now?
We were cooking so much that December. Essentially living together, and happily resigned to the otherwise mundane routine. Still happy to grocery shop together. We walked to Superfresh one night. Or I think it was Superfresh. I suppose it doesn’t matter. We were in the grocery store, and he was quiet. Was I naive or was I in denial? Or was I merely stupid? He was quiet, and his explanation was that he was fearful that this would be our only Christmas together.
I think I genuinely believed him to be crazy at that moment. I knew things were grave, but for one moment I never thought that we’d only get one Christmas.
I don’t remember anymore what we were cooking. It might have been the night we had omelets and cereal while playing video games. It might have been the night we made chili. I guess what I ought to cling tightly to is that he was afraid of being without me. Of bastard time, which would eventually prove him right.
I tell myself that the details to these stories don’t matter. The emotions and consequences do. But there’s something separately heartbreaking about letting loose those inconsequentials. I no longer remember my grandmother’s phone number either.