Tonight, I am missing him. The question is, who is the him? Cleaning out my bedroom in an effort to begin the tedious task known as packing and sorting, I found a letter I wrote several years ago. I remember the night exactly, even though the letter was not dated. My mother had found, and in turn, gave me pictures of my old boyfriend. Looking through the pictures, I fought the smile that inevitably crept upon my face, before handing them back saying I no longer cared. In all honesty, I really didn't care anymore; he had left a long time before. Still, it was nice to see his face. The one that will never age now, and will forever be sixteen. I allowed myself to have a moment, that moment, the one that missed the way his eyes looked at me, and how his hair felt when I ran my fingers through it tenderly. I remembered a look that used to cut me to the core and gave me butterflies. Briefly, I wondered if he was still capable of doing that? I surmised he probably was. Once the moment was over though, it didn't matter anymore, and I was once again the young twenty-something that had let him go.
Since writing is how I deal with my life and the things I don't understand, it did not surprise me to find another letter. This one was all kinds of messed up, as I started it on the wrong side of the notebook paper and continued that trend throughout the letter. Looking back now, I no longer remembered which page or which side came first; it was fun trying to piece my own letter together. Unlike the boyfriend who left by choice, this letter was to my grandpa -- he did not leave by choice. My hero. The best man a ten-year-old girl could ask for, when her own father was no longer around. The man who is irreplaceable, and unfortunately for any man who tries to come into my life now; will always be the model of what love and family should look like. The night I wrote his letter, I was missing him then too. When I was a little girl, and after he died, he would frequently show up in my dreams until I told him to stop visiting me; the pain was too much to bear when I woke-up and he was no longer there. After that time, I have seen him less than three or four times; he came only when I was in such a desperate place in my life, that he was the only one that would suffice. The night I wrote the letter, I was lamenting the fact I just wanted to see his face once more, as it felt like I was forgetting him. I didn't need him though. My life wasn't falling apart. I knew he wouldn't come, but still, I couldn't remember whether his eyes were blue or green, and that was cause for alarm enough. If I remember correctly, I didn't see him in my dreams that night, in fact, I still haven't. And yes, he is fading, but I know my love nor his never will; just the physical nature of his body fades.
The only other him I could be missing is the son I never had. The child who earned his angel wings before I got to meet him or hold him or find out what kind of man he'd turn out to be. He's been on my mind a lot here lately, as different things have made me think of him. A friend has a blog that she writes to deal with the loss of her sweet baby girl, and it had me reduced to tears just last night, as I read through her day-to-day struggle to achieve normalcy; whatever that is now. I think back to a friend who miscarried a year or so ago. She told me at the time, when I confessed I had as well, that she felt like she joined a secret society that she never wanted to be apart of. The tragedy we as women endure, the ones who carry the child, can feel their kicks and are their sole protector for nine months; the tragedy that unites us, but the one we never speak of in public. Today I saw a baby, a three month old little girl when I was out to lunch with the father of my children. We both watched the new, young mother as she tried to handle a diaper bag, her purse, the baby and a stroller all at once. We smiled inadvertently, and even chuckled as she managed the juggling routine, but we never said a word. Every now and then we have those moments where we understand. The loss is bigger than the both of us, and there is nothing to say.
I miss him.
Love,
The Rambling Gypsy
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