It’s still not real to me that you’re gone. I am under the impression that you’re just kinda elsewhere. Like, maybe you went to DC to see Michelle in action. In a few days, I’ll see your name light up on gchat, engage me in a heart-to-heart about the girls we miss, try to get me to play ball on Saturday; I’ll opt for lunch in 10. In a few days, I’ll run into you on the way back from Ackerman, diet coke in one hand, “Natasha” in the other. We’ll exchange stories about our weekends and move past the strain of the last month with such ease—the way we were about to. In a few days, I’ll find your newest post on the playground. One about the law schools that have accepted you, the thrill of building your future. In a few days, you’ll text me about the weekend: “truckstop fri? meet at my place at 10.” I’ll come for the sake of watching you down Long Islands and dance up on the ONE straight girl in the place.
I imagine that this month I’ll be a better brother. I’ll let you drag my sorry ass out of the house. Stop making excuses. I think that this month I’ll finally be ready to just let you see me cry, for fuck’s sake…if I can even find the tears. I’ll snap outa my shit and hit the beach with you. We’ll discuss the merits of chocolate labs to the brink of violence while tossing the disc, drink beers, shoot pool, avoid the 10 pound pets as we browse the sunglasses, sneak into the back alley store for samosas, and head back to my place for chai.
I imagine that this month you’ll be using your Berkley acceptance as a bargaining chip to get more aid from UCLA as I prep for my interview, and we’ll swap knowing glances of desi perfectionism. We’ll toy with the idea of moving in together. Cheaper rent, bigger place with someone we know and trust. I’ll question your taste in music, your singing ability, and you’ll turn it around on me in front of the cute girls so that you look sweet and innocent, I look like a douche, and they shower you with attention for the rest of the night. Sometime this month, we’ll celebrate our successes by taking some spot by storm with our “exotic” looks and mysterious personas—the sly smirks that turn straight girls gay.
It’s tough right now, you know? It’s tough to see your shadows in the Court of Sciences and not hurt from your absence. It’s tough to keep on moving through the routine of 9 to 5s like any of it matters half as much as the relationships we forget to nurture cuz we’re always tryin to handle some other shit.
I want to let go of the pangs of guilt and the what ifs and whys. I want to forgive myself the way you had already forgiven me, free my warnings from culpability, forget that I may have brought you to the place of your accident—holding on to these things obfuscates the vivacity of your spirit.
But it’s damn hard to let go. It’s hard to let go when it doesn’t even feel real. The best I can do is keep waiting for your voice to help guide me out of my foolishness and into your light.