january 12

Something woke me up earlier than normal that morning.
I willed myself to sleep in a little longer, it was day off.
My eyes would not stay shut.

In my pajamas I logged in to facebook. Something made me click over to his profile, just in time to see the very first “RIP, my friend” pop up on his wall.
I thought it was a joke.
Then another one popped up.
And another.
I made a frantic phone call to his best friend.
“No,” he said. “It’s not a joke. I wish it was.”
His local news station covered the story.
I watched the footage of his charred car from 400 miles away.

Nausea sucker punched me and came in waves.
I slumped sat on the bathroom floor and cried.
I cried out of anger. I cried because my heart had broken.
I cried because I would never have a chance to be his friend.

 

Four years earlier I called him on a cold night in November.
“My house is on fire, “I said. “And I don’t know why, but I needed to call you. I think I need you here.”
He came. He said he realized he loved me that night.
We stood across the street and watched the flames.
He helped me build my life back from the ashes.

Three years earlier I had been wide awake in bed beside him, watching the moonlight filter through the window and staring at him.
I felt like I needed to memorize his face. I needed to memorize his voice.
I didn’t understand why.
 I kept everything. I printed out every facebook message and lovely email. I scrapbooked our adventures.
Something I couldn’t put my finger on made me memorialize the part I played in his life.

 

Two years earlier I had my cards read. I told her to focus on my relationship.
Tower card.
Fire. Ruin.
Sudden loss.

 We went our separate ways.
I thought that was the card’s significance.
We didn’t talk. It was easier. I always thought one day we’d be able to be friends.
A few years down the road when enough time had passed.
I didn’t expect such a literal translation.
I didn’t expect that he’d leave my life the same way he entered.
Surrounded in flames.

 

Today marks two years of the world spinning without him.

It still feels remarkably unfair.

 

Advertisement