A weather eye
Friday was a beautiful, perfect day. And when I stepped outside at lunchtime, it was familiar, too, in a way beyond the way that all weather is familiar to those who live in a place long enough. The heat, the light, the clouds were familiar in an emotional way. And then it hit me: it was exactly like the last day we had together, in person. I was instantly transported in time to that day, and I was back in California even as a drove home for lunch.
It was Memorial Day last year, and we didn’t have anything planned since I was leaving for home that evening. We slept in, ate breakfast, and then went for a long walk on the Los Gatos Creek Trail near his apartment. The trail was busy, everyone enjoying the holiday morning under partly cloudy skies. The air was warm, and damper than I was used to. We walked, talked, and sweated. Or I did. He never seemed to break a sweat or need a swig from the water bottle I’d brought along.
I stopped thinking about it long enough to eat my lunch and try out a new song I wanted to learn on my guitar, and then I headed back to work. Once I stepped outside into the warm afternoon, though, I was right back in my reverie, following the rest of the day through in my head.
On our way back to his apartment, we stopped at the water recharging pond near his place because I’d spied a gaggle of baby geese in one corner, progeny of the geese that honked all day and into the evenings, and woke us up each morning. And then we went to pick some seed pods that had fallen from the trees a block or two from his house that we had spied on a walk the night before. We filled a plastic bag, and he found some tiny pinecones, too, and gave them to me. The pods sit in a vase next to his picture on my desk at home now, the pinecones next to his pictures over my music stand next to the Tanoak acorns I picked up at Big Basin in February.
We dropped off our treasures, changed into swimsuits, and headed down to the pool that was cold enough that I had to catch my breath after I finally ducked under after wading in up to my chest. He was braver than I and went right in, but he got out faster, too, and watched from a chaise poolside as I did my otter impression. And then we went back into the house, lost the swimsuits and made love.
Eventually, I got packed up while I tried to hold it together. I was barely successful; leaving him always made me sad. And I remember the comforting hug he gave me in the dark hallway outside the kitchen. I put myself back there frequently, and can almost feel his arms around me. I stay there for a long time in my head sometimes.
We decided to go to a Mexican restaurant we’d been to before for dinner before heading to the airport. We ate and talked and he told me stories of his wedding day. I ate my quesadilla and stared at him, trying to soak him up before I left, until my gaze made him look up from his dinner and say, "You’ve got the sad face again."
And I did. I told him I was trying to hold it together. He told me, "There will be many more visits." And I said, "I know." We were both wrong.
I kissed and hugged him goodbye in the terminal right outside of security, dragging it out as long as I could, and then once I was past the checkpoint, I would turn back to see him as I waited in line. He would always move to stay within sight. And the last image I had of seeing him myself, not on the computer, was of his face, his eyes trying to smile but his lips not quite managing it, as I turned the corner of security and lost sight of him. When I got through the metal detector and could look again, he was gone, and my eyes were filled with the tears that had been barely contained all afternoon.
And as my memory got to that point, to the last time I saw him, I started crying in the car. I couldn’t hold it off any longer. I have cried about that image in my mind’s eye so many times. So many last times remembered. The memories are clear, and sharp in all senses of the word. I have lost any fear I had that I wouldn’t remember all the details: the feeling of his hand around mine, his kiss, and the moments we shared. They are all there, and when they come, surprising me sometimes, I am grateful even as the tears form, that the memory is vivid enough to make me cry, and to take my breath away as I don’t just remember; I relive it.
When I pulled into the parking lot at the office, the tears were still there. I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes, reminded myself that I’d been content while playing my guitar, and headed in. When I got to my desk, I found an e-mail from his brother, who had sent a funny video to me, his sister and brother-in-law, and other friends. And it made me laugh through my tears, not only because of the video but because of the timing. I don’t hear from his brother much at all. And yet at this moment when memories had overwhelmed me and I was sad, there he was, sending me something to make me laugh. There are no coincidences, and I’m so glad I learned that. It has made the unbearable survivable.