May 22

The reminder came almost suddenly, subtly.

Like heartbreak and grief that appear like an unexpected visitor knocking on your door.

Or the visitor of death, who takes your breath away so quickly without remorse.

It just appeared.

I nearly had forgotten.

So I waited for a knock at my door.

But there was only silence mixed with anticipation, dread of that rhythmic knock knock knock.

Had I missed the noise?

Usually it was deafening. Hard to ignore. The kind of knock that shook the house and rattled your bones. The kind that brings the house of straw tumbling down as my heart cowers in the wreckage with the terrible cry of "little heart, little heart, let me in." 

And my heart replied "I still have bruises on my skin from the last time I let you inside."

So heartbreak and grief huffed and puffed and stole my breath away.

But today,

I could breathe.

Today,

I felt only nostalgic.

Today,

I didn't lie in bed with your letter clutched to my chest tracing words that you no longer meant etched in purple ink from a pen that I once commented I liked.

I didn't build a broken smile as I read "with a lot a lot a lot a lot a lot a lot a lot of love." Or wonder how seven a lots can disappear without a trace. Just vanish.

Because over the course of a year I learned something. Energy is never lost, it only transforms. It carries on from one state or object to another.

Those a lots didnt vanish. They transformed into something else, and I dont know what. I could never identify that look in your eye as you held me one last time. They carried from me to another, and all I can say is I hope you love her. And mean every a lot you place into her.

And I can tell you now that I've also learned that when you love someone, it never really goes away. Your love transformed but mine did too. I love you still, but not in the same way. You showed me how to brave the storm, and now I'm desperately in love with someone who sheltered me from it.

He taught me how to breathe.

And I want you to know that it's okay sometimes to not be in the midst of the storm.

It's okay to watch it, like that day we did in the garage with the rain pounding hard.

I hope you find someone to shelter you.

And she can have that first kiss that was meant for me, I won't mind.

The reminder came quietly.

And so did the memory.

I remember when I put it there.

You had your hand in mine, your thumb tracing slow rhythmic circles on mine, when I placed your birthday in my phone.

You teased me for being forgetful.

You teased me for spelling birthday wrong, even though you knew it was on purpose.

You laughed at the 7 F's and 4 A's and 9 Y's. 

7 a lots, 7 F's, 7 days.

Happy birthday.