There and back again
The seal broke as B and I made our way from the gate to baggage claim at SFO, when I saw a sign for Peet’s Coffee, which is the kind he always bought. He’d stop by the store and have it ground fresh on #4. Not a coffee drinker myself, I was, and remain, mystified about coffee arcana. But I remember the #4, and the little shop outside of the Safeway that seemed cuter than the average Starbucks, and the tall man at my side ordering coffee to his specs.
After that, he was everywhere. He was on the Golden Gate Bridge with me, grinning and amused at my excitement of being on the bridge every time we crossed it. He was with me down every mile of nausea-inducing road winding through the wine country, and in the darkness of the redwood forest. He was with me in the late afternoon light as we traveled the last few miles up Highway 1 and pulled into the parking lot. He was with me as B & I shopped in the little town to the north, our path the same one he and I trod three years ago. He was with me as I sang my song to my fellow campers, my voice thickening as I choked up. He was with me as I drove into town past the B&B we stayed at together. Oddly, seeing that on the last day was the least emotional moment of the trip. Camp will not be held there next year, and I knew I had to say my goodbyes to the place.
He was everywhere, and memories came to me fast and clearer than I would’ve been able to consciously conjure them up. That happens sometimes, and I’m always amazed at the level of detail and emotional accuracy they contain. It seems the unbidden memories are clearer than the ones I rehearse so as not to lose them. They are a gift, and I rest a bit easier knowing that those memories are in there, more than I could ever inventory, even if I cannot lay hands on them when I want them. I do not worry about forgetting him, because my mind has proven over and over again that it was paying attention the whole time we were together. It doles out memories I didn’t even realize I had, at just the right time.
It isn’t the memories that sadden me, usually. They are most often good thoughts and special moments that in their remembrance make me fall in love with him again and again, deepening a love that has long since become immeasurable. And the fact that he’s not here for me to show and express that love is what makes me sad.
It’s a tough gig, this particular brand of unrequited love. Losing your beloved is survivable, and life, incredibly, becomes tolerable without him or her, and even good sometimes. But still I would not wish widowhood on my worst enemy, if only for the fact that I live every day with the knowledge that my life was so much better with him in it, and has been darkened and diminished by his death. Not so much as to make me despair permanently, but enough to feel the difference.