October 29th, 2002 - 6.17 pm
So today is Jesse's third anniversary. It's the first one no one from "that life" has called me. Last year his parents called to say they were renting out his apartment. The year before, some of his friends, Ace and Kyle called. And this year, it's very alone. Laine wrote a poem once and one of the stanzas was something like "an alone grief but then, it was an alone kind of love".
It wasn't really, though. Not an alone kind of love. I can see how it seemed that way to her. But in that love he was there. To pet me and love me and somehow know the perfect ways to soothe me.
I'm feeling a raw kind of hurt this year. I don't know why. The first anniversary raw hurt, the second, I felt like maybe it was kind of glossing over a little. Like, it still hurt, but was more like a muscle ache, not a ripping pain.
And don't get me wrong, I'm not sitting around, the tragic widow in black with mascara streaks running down my face, moaning and waving my lacy hanky at the servants to bring me a stiff drink. I haven't cried all day, actually. I went about my business, thinking a lot about him, it's snowing here today. When we. . .When I had him, his presence physically, when I visited New York with my parents, it snowed our whole trip. Provided some perfect instances for cuddles, and coffee and these magical moments that I can't even describe because I can't make you feel the snow on your eyelashes, or the flutter of your heart, or his scratchy wool mittens falling off of your hands, I can't show you the glimmer of the lights of Madison Square off of each snowflake, lighting the air with nectarine energy, I can't pour creamy chai down your throat, while you watch the flood of people hurrying home from the theatre, hurrying to hotels, to catch a train,hurryinghurryinghurrying. I can't give you the feeling in your chest while you just got to sit there and watch, the feeling that time slowed down for you. I can't give you the warm feeling of having arms around you that didn't expect anything, I can't show you wide green eyes framed by inky hair, so dark it was almost blue, watching you while you slept. I can't make you feel that safe. Even describing it, I can't . . . these words don't capture it.
The snow today seemed dim when I thought about that snow. It felt lonely instead of safe. I felt cold instead of envigorated. Instead of feeling Jesse's presence, I felt his absence. And I miss him. I know it's reduntant, and silly, but when I push everything else out of the way, I MISS HIM. I miss him. So much of me is tied up in what I found in him, so much of why I am the way that I am, so many of the good things in my life, are because he gave me the strength. . .Whatever.
I just. . .I wanted to say goodbye, you know, I wanted to kiss his forehead and hold his hand, and cry and laugh I wanted those last moments with him. I wanted him to tell me how much he loved me, how much better I made his life. I wanted to hear that from his lips. I want to tell him exactly. . .I don't know exactly what I wanted to tell him. I can't talk about him with the people in my life now. I can't explain him without feeling silly, like I'm overreacting, like somehow I'm not entitled to this grief.
But I hear Frank Sinatra, or that Marc Cohn song, Walking in Memphis, and somehow he is in my mind, on my lips, I can smell him. Jesus. I wish I knew when this would get better, when this would end. Because I know it's better. But fuckin a. Entitled or not I greive. Entitled or not I hurt somewhere deep down in my stomach. Entitled or not, I just want to have someone hold me until this goes away.
It may be an alone sort of greif, but it wasn't an alone sort of love.
