Sometimes I wish I were the type of person that stored my sentiments in pictures or presents. Things I could put away when circumstances necessitated it, tucking them away until they could be unearthed when they’d lost their emotional pull. Theoretically I could pour all that sentimental energy into these objects, these things, so they could store the whatever it was that it isn’t anymore so that later, when they needed repacking or to be a visual aid for the retelling of a story, they could be bound neatly inside the confines of an old birthday/Christmas/I-saw-this-and-thought-of-you gift.
It seems like it might be easier.
It seems like it might be easier.
If I were, perhaps I wouldn’t be so caught off guard in public when the opening chords of a song pick me up and drop me back in the middle of a motion picture of my memories before I can prepare myself. Or maybe if I were the type of writer who could write frivolously about inconsequential things, I would not have pages of written monuments in your honor. I would have no use for remembering the exact shade of your skin found mirrored in my favorite coffee or any documentation of my own obsession with loving so wholly, down to the details.
I am not that person. Instead, I am a writer. I write what I feel because I have to. Because my words aren’t just letters on a page but tattoos on my skin. They are small pieces of this life I’ve lived and how I’ve lived it and who I’ve shared it with and why I am and who I am. And they stay with me, as do the details of you, long after you are gone.
I wonder if you ever come here and read these words, bear witness to these things I’ve laid down on this altar, done in remembrance of you.
Liquor, Loans & Love 