And the memory is unreachable, I can’t seem to place it. The rain poured, and I leaned in next to you, comforting you. The darkness of the night engulfed us, and I was unaware of our surroundings.
“Thank you,” you said.
“For what?” I was dumbfounded. For the touch? For the presence? For finding you?
“For tomorrow,” you replied, winked at me, and left me ever so confused.
They say you can’t tell the future. No one can. But that winter, I saw my future in your eyes, and when death came for me, I wondered where you were.
“It is not the diamonds or the birds, the people or the potatoes; it is not any of the nouns. The miracle is the adverbs, the way things are done. It is the way love gets done despite every catastrophe.”
I dreamt of you last night, and you wanted to talk. About books, poetry, and music. I hadn’t dreamt of you since you passed away. And I woke up today, to Facebook reminding me that it is your birthday. I can’t bring myself to remove you off of my Facebook, even though you left the world. I miss you, and I hope you have the best birthday cake where you are.
Losing you to death taught me to say I love you when the person is still alive, breathing the same air I am. People still think this is cliché, until death sweeps in. So happy birthday to you, the person who I admired and learned from. The world wasn’t good enough for you, love is where you are now, and I know the angels are taking good care of you.