I see a red car like yours and, just like that, we are sitting side by side on a bench at the train station. You are rummaging through the inside zipper pocket for the special piece of material you use to clean your glasses. One of your many “isms” that make me smile. This time you are wiping the tears from your glasses. Telling me how much you loved my most recent piece. One I had written about the Goose. Always so easy to tears. Another endearing part of who you are….were.
This is how it happens now. A flash of a memory and it’s like the searing pain of losing you is brand new. That we’ll celebrate another birthday next week without you. That it will never truly be over. It’s all part of what it means to be left behind. So I’m going to run a bath and drink a martini and play songs that help me remember your face. I’m going to let myself miss you.
I’m going to remember that bitter cold trip to the city. The reason we were on the bench that day. We found a can of Tab in a bodega and you insisted on me in a picture with it. Me in my purple coat and striped hat. We had dinner in your favorite Italian restaurant. Puttanesca for me (cuz I’m a dirty whore) and Bolognese for you. Me all the while thinking it’s spaghetti, you know that’s just spaghetti right? But saying nothing because you were so enjoying your fancy dinner. Playing cards with pints (you one and me….many) batting our eyelashes at pretty boys that probably weren’t all that pretty in the light of day. Tooling through the fabric district. You finding baubles the Goose would love to make something fabulous out of. Was it this trip where you decided to commission her to make you a skirt? A wrap-around that I never saw you wear but you insisted on paying for.
Oh and your laugh….