I roll over and stare at the glowing red from across the room. It’s December 25th at 2:38 in the morning. I close my eyes and I hear his voice on the other end of the line. At first, a feeling of calm washes over me, as the conversation unfolds in my mind. I linger on certain words, repeating them over and over again, until the sinking feeling sets in and I quietly remind myself that he’s gone — that those words, seared into my memory like a branding, are the last I’ll ever hear.
I lay still, my breathing steadies, and the tears start streaming down my face, as I press my eyelids together tightly, as if to slow or stop them, but they only speed up. My palms form tiny fists and I want to speak, to shout, to scream… but instead, I just bring my knees to my chest and cry. Cry, because that’s all I can do.
Nothing could have prepared me for the phone call that whisked him away, and out of my life, wreaking havoc on every part of my heart. For eighteen years he was a best friend, a brother, a source of love, laughter, and support. He knew my stories, my secrets, my feelings and flaws, and he loved me just the same. He understood the meaning of unconditional in a way that most never will. For the years that he couldn’t be physically present, he more than made up for it, however he could. He never stopped writing, never stopped calling. He truly never missed a beat, even through my inconsistencies.
Eight months later and eight thousand miles away from home, I still struggle to stitch the pieces together, as this year comes to a close. I still carry so much regret for canceling our plans. We were set to meet on a Thursday and he passed late in the night on Friday. I’ll never know if that would have somehow altered his course, but I think about it every day. I think about all the things I wish I could say.
Grief is such a personal thing. It’s consuming, yet we’re taught to pull it inward, keep it quiet. And I’m good at that most of the time, but not always. Not today. Not when it’s the first time he won’t be wishing me Merry Christmas.
Sometimes I think I hear him, telling me to do things for others. Sometimes I think I feel him in the room with me. I look for him at every turn — in people, places, and things. Mostly, I just think I’m not ready to let go. The latter is probably the most likely, but also the hardest to swallow.
