This is the fourth letter I’ve tried to write. I have nothing. The words don’t come.
I have decided I will continue this one, even if I just write “fuck.” Because fuck — at least that’s real.
I felt drawn to the beach today. Not the crowded one walking distance from my house. Our house? Why don’t we have a home?
Last week, I went to visit the class I would have been in. I didn’t realize it at the time; these things all blur together for me. I went looking for a tutor, and she remembered me. And I realized, this is where my life could look different. I might have been the one she was complaining about, always rushing home to be with my child. I could have been that person, you should have been here.
I had a conversation yesterday, another conversation about how things are both the same and also different. I wonder if I should have come here. I wonder when anything will feel worth it again.
I have tried so many times to write to you, and of course part of the problem is this numbness. I hate this present numbness. It pulls me from you. And in this pulling, it somehow leaves me feeling lesser things, and I hate it. Because your loss was clean, and I hate feeling anything that’s not about you. And somehow, I still do.
And I think back to that night, when things started changing. And there’s a huge part of me that wishes I hadn’t allowed them to.
Well. I don’t know if I believe in signs. I definitely don’t believe the way many do, that you are watching over me, sending me signals. But she looked at me with so much terror in her eyes, and I helped her. And if she isn’t from you, she can still carry something. She can fly.
I haven’t written, lately, because words have felt hard. I haven’t written, lately, because my attention hasn’t been focused on you. And I want to apologize, because I remember those early days when I thought I would never stop thinking about you. And this new life feels foreign, and frighteningly shallow. and I’m scared of becoming again the person I was before you.
I’m here by the ocean. It’s quiet today. It’s almost always quiet here, I think that’s why I like it. The air is always colder here. I came prepared with blankets. I’m huddled all in layers, staring at the water.
I remember your memorial, and the bonfire by the ocean. I remember trying to speak, people so very far away. I remember feeling like nothing felt right, scrambling at the last moment for something else to say. I remember that calm moment between the outgoing and the in, when everything just — stopped. If I hold onto anything, it’s that in-between. It’s the space inside that moment where everything collides.
I haven’t written lately, though I’m overwhelmed with feeling. But these feelings aren’t about you, and that’s its own kind of hard.
And I’m reduced to that single word — fuck.
I curse this numbness and all distractions from missing you.
I miss knowing how to miss you.