I want to tell you how high the waves were the other day. How the surfers were getting creamed in the surf and yet it was the hottest day in November in the city’s history. I want to tell you about packing here, the things you were right about, the things you exaggerated. I want to tell you about the dinner I cooked, the jumps I did, driving in the rain, my blue shoes, how I cut my hair, my thoughts on your ash-dive, your friends whom I’ve met. I want to show you my swollen knuckle, the weight I lost, my new room, the things I write, how my eyes well up. There are so many things I want to tell you about. But you still won’t visit me in my dreams.
Everyday when I see cool things, or something interesting happens, I still get that initial urge to tell Dave about it. In that brief moment I experience excitement getting brutally quashed – not so much brutally, but hopelessly. I’m not sure how many people know what that feels like. To want to pick up the phone. To want to look for updates online. Until he gets home later. To wait for the impossible – just a sign that he’s ok, that he hasn’t forgotten me. And then to realize in that same instant that desire and wish will never – can never be fulfilled. Part of me is glad that urge hasn’t gone away, but another part of me seriously questions the functioning of the human brain – it seems it is quite built for self-torture.
A year ago today I left Dave at the airport and went to New Zealand for five months. I will always remember the look on his face that day, how he turned back for a brief moment to catch my gaze and then quickly rolled his head back around. He told me he cried that day. He told me called his mom. He told me he told his mom that he thought this was the girl he was going to marry, how leaving me at the airport was the hardest thing he ever had to do in his life. I only saw Dave for four more days until he died. Granted that he died nearly five months ago, it doesn’t change that I hardly got to spend any more time with him. I would change it all if I could get just one more day – just one more lifetime. But Dave and I both needed our alone time. He needed to spend time alone in Cali as much as I needed to go to NZ and figure out some shit on my own. Regardless, November 6 will always have the same negativity surrounding it as June 10.
I want to tell Dave that I’m sorry I left though. I want to tell him that I’m sorry I didn’t force him to come home with me in May, even though I know he thought about it long and hard that last night we spent together. But I could never force him to do anything, not because he was uncontrollable, but because I loved him too much to choose for him. But as much as I’m angry at him for leaving me here, for putting me through the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through, I want to say I’m sorry for leaving him twice at the airport, for walking away from him, for making him walk away from me.