One of our last days together we spent in Malibu.
He hated the beach. He complained about the traffic on the PCH. He complained about the heat from the sun. He complained about the sand that stuck to his feet and inevitably followed us home.
It was a high summer day, but shockingly, I had found us a strip of shoreline where we were alone. Following a wooden staircase to the narrow plot of sand, we sat next to million dollar homes and retired surfboards.
He laid out his towel, and fell asleep quickly on his stomach.
I had wanted it to be a day just for us. A moment to appreciate the final throws of being fiancés, not husband and wife.
But now, I was actually alone.
I stared off at the water. A deep shade of turquoise and navy.
I loved the beach.
I loved the drive up the PCH. I loved the sun baking into my skin. I loved the sand that stuck to my legs becoming a souvenir from the day.
The Pacific always felt like this expansive being, that maybe if I spent more time with it, my life could feel just as endless with possibilities.
I didn’t know it was possible for him to leave. I didn’t know it was possible to die and come back to life.
We stayed for an hour or so. He eventually woke up, squinting through the lenses of his blue blockers. We took some photos together until he shrugged me off.
“Ok. Enough. Enough.” But was it enough?
We got back in the car and drove to the east side. I don’t remember the music we played. Or if we stopped for In-N-Out.
And that is the tricky thing about memory. When we examine our past, how can these events not get painted with what we know now in the present.
Because maybe my memory is playing tricks on me. Or now, I see clearly, how much more I deserved that day at the beach in Malibu.
There was time, when I looked back and saw the messy love of it all. Our tanned legs intertwined like a knot never meant to be un-tied. His sweaty mustached kisses on my forehead. Our discussion on what songs we would dance to at our wedding.
I am grappling with the dichotomy that defines my past life. I am negotiating that moments can be two things at once. There is an urge to scour the recollections of my twenties to find the truth. The cruelest version of myself judges my naivety and punishes my blindness. But I don’t think that is accurate to what actually happened.
Grief is a familiar friend to me now, almost a year later. She sleeps at my feet like my dog once did. She appears on my face when I see an elderly couple sharing ice cream in Central Park. She follows me home, late at night, after a few too many shots of tequila. Making sure I don’t fall asleep on the Q train.
The story of us, I feel detached from. As if it was a film I watched in an icy movie theatre somewhere on Sunset Boulevard. My memories play back like some big-screened mythology.
There is a sick pleasure to know my name must be a sensitive subject. That those letters strung together are probably forbidden from his mouth. That is powerful. My memory is powerful. How did your mother feel when she took down the photos of us showcased in her living room?
Los Angeles is full of ghost stories and murders of Old-Hollywood scandal. He killed me off, so now I haunt the halls of his home like some scorned little starlet.
I wonder if he remembers that my eyes would have loved him for a lifetime. I barely remember now. I barely remember why.
I might not be able to rely on my memories. But I can rely on my grief as proof of how deeply I can love. And how deeply I can live. She is a friend, because I do not want to banish her away. Grief is a better kept friend than fickle memory. She is the badge of honor for how much life I have already lived.
This is so powerful ! Waiting for the next one !!
I hate reading but when it comes to your writing style, I’m hooked. Please write that book.